<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Spitting Image by ColdColdHeart</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26161255">Spitting Image</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColdColdHeart/pseuds/ColdColdHeart'>ColdColdHeart</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Key to Oslov [14]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Class Differences, Coming of Age, Dysfunctional Family, Family Drama, Family Feels, Illegitimacy, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, M/M, Parent-Child Relationship, Teen Angst, mentions of past forced prostitution</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 13:19:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>20,295</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26161255</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColdColdHeart/pseuds/ColdColdHeart</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ceill Linnett is thirteen now. It's a difficult age, even when you have three loving parents. And those loving parents are still keeping a secret from him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tilrey Bronn/Gersha Gádden</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Key to Oslov [14]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1193242</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is the sequel to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23401396/chapters/56082049">"Feather Snow,"</a> but things are getting less fluffy as the real world intrudes more and more on the domestic idyll. This story will probably have three chapters and also covers how Tilrey's faring in the Council.</p>
<p>The Free Northmen and the naughty photos of Tilrey were introduced in <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23970334/chapters/57653833">"Tales From the Sanctioned Brothel: Part I: The Painted Boy."</a> The two stories will become one story when Ceill hits adulthood (and no, he will not be working in the Brothel, or at least not that way!). For now, enjoy a little tween angst. :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The day Ceill Linnett’s world upended started out as a good day.</p>
<p>It was the last day of fall term, and he was already packed for tomorrow’s flight to Thurskein. He and Dad and Tilrey would spend five days there, celebrating the winter solstice and Ceill’s birthday with Grandma Lisha, then proceed to the villa in the Southern Range to celebrate everything again with his mom and grandmother.</p>
<p>But Ceill was most excited about the Thurskein part of the trip, because Sector Six would be holding a fitness fest with races and an obstacle course and an ice climbing wall, and he was desperate to get on that wall. He could already feel the crampons sinking into the ice as he pulled himself up. Dad didn’t like the idea, because you were supposed to be fifteen for that part of the course and Ceill was thirteen, but he was big for his age.</p>
<p>He thought about the ice wall whenever he couldn’t endure another long, dark hour of teachers droning about test results. The midterm scores were in, and Ceill’s quants were in the seventy-eighth percentile, but it wasn’t like he’d failed<em>. </em>He wasn’t like Omi Kalberg, the class thug, who never scored higher than sixty on anything. Even two of the popular high-named boys, Fers and Ludo, had scored lower than Ceill had.</p>
<p>He was average, he told himself, and that was fine. In his old class in Thurskein, he would have been <em>better</em> than average.</p>
<p>But then he remembered his father patiently explaining the equations, pointing at the page with a pained, earnest look in his eyes, as if he couldn’t imagine why Ceill or anyone wouldn’t get it if you just made it clear enough. Then a pit opened in Ceill’s stomach, and he vowed to study harder next time. Dad had enough to worry about, trying desperately to keep everybody happy.</p>
<p>At least Ceill had aced his verbal tests, his Whyberg, his history. And now he was running steadily around the track, legs and lungs pumping, closing in on five k and making good time. If only their fitness tests counted.</p>
<p>He slowed to a walk, still feeling the high, and gazed longingly up at the gymnasium windows. They were black with premature darkness. Everywhere was dark now, but Thurskein would have outdoor floodlights and fairy lights and even torches shimmering on the snow. People <em>liked </em>being outside there.</p>
<p>When he was little and stupid, Ceill used to brag about the three or four months he spent in ’Skein each year, telling the kids in Redda about everything they were missing. That was how he got the nickname “Dak Drudgebound,” after the lazy underachiever in the animated stream they all grew up with.</p>
<p>Now that he was older, only five years from Notification, he knew enough to pretend he hadn’t enjoyed his years of schooling in the Laborer city. But nobody in Redda ever forgot anything, and he still heard the nickname from time to time.</p>
<p>Privately, Ceill thought Dak Drudgebound was right about certain things. It <em>would</em> be nice to slow down and enjoy yourself from time to time, to sleep late and pause to watch a sunset. Maybe he was lazy, but he knew none of the cruel ways his peers described ’Skein and Skeinshaka were true—not even close.</p>
<p>Footsteps echoed behind him. “Hey, ’Nett! Trying to give yourself a heart attack?”</p>
<p>It was Ludo Akeina, the boy who hadn’t done well on his quants. He was barely attempting to exercise, but he didn’t need to—he was tall and broad-shouldered, like Ceill, and unlike Ceill he always knew the right things to say.</p>
<p>Ceill slowed down and let Ludo catch up to him. The more he was seen with the popular high names, the less likely Om Kalberg and his gang were to peg him as easy prey.</p>
<p>They’d been giving him trouble this term—tripping him or blocking his way in the corridors, only to step aside with nasty smirks. Stupid shit, just their silent way of telling him they knew he was on the fringes. But Ceill needed to make sure they remembered he had multiple Councillors in his family, just like Ludo. He didn’t want to end up like Ev Keralt, who’d spent a night locked up naked in the equipment room and didn’t dare rat on the jerks who put him there.</p>
<p>So Ceill smiled at Ludo, trying to look unthreatened at the same time. <em>Cool</em>. “Hey.”</p>
<p>“Hey.” Ludo fell a little behind Ceill, smoothing black hair off his forehead. He had long black lashes, too, like a stream star whom Ceill privately found very attractive.</p>
<p>“Going South this break?” Ceill asked, trying to sound casual. All that time in Thurskein had left him unsure of himself; the right things to say were so different in Redda.</p>
<p>“You bet.” Ludo grinned. “Hey, wanna see a pic I printed from my uncle’s desktop?”</p>
<p>“A pic” always meant a photo of someone naked, and they were much in demand. Ceill nodded obediently, glad that Ludo had singled him out and hoping he wouldn’t have the wrong reaction.</p>
<p>“Follow me.” Ludo veered off the track.</p>
<p>Ceill followed him to the water station, where they both refilled their bottles. Then Ludo headed to a window in the corner, dodging a group of girls who were laughing excitedly about break plans.</p>
<p>“C’mon.” His schoolmate motioned conspiratorially, drawing Ceill into the shelter of the deep windowframe. “Before Lazarat notices.” He unfolded a crumpled print-out and offered it. “Got enough light to see?”</p>
<p>Ceill had seen a few pics over people’s shoulders, and they always made him blush. Sometimes they caused even more embarrassing reactions.</p>
<p>He didn’t want that to happen in front of Ludo, so he gave the photo only a cursory glance. It was a boy older than they were, shot in profile, wearing only a robe and standing in front of a window. Ceill was about to pass it back with a generic <em>Whoa, what a scorcher </em>when he realized.</p>
<p>The boy in the photo was Tilrey.</p>
<p>The robe covered him—thank everything green for that. But it was him, no possible doubt.</p>
<p>This Tilrey was young, so young that Ceill must not have been born yet. He stared out the window with a sad, dreamy expression on his unmistakable face. Bleary sun caught the blue of his eyes.</p>
<p>Burning heat spread over Ceill’s own face and down his neck. <em>Please don’t let Ludo know. Please, please, please.</em></p>
<p>But one glance at Ludo—also blushing, but in an eager, excited way—told him that Ludo had given him this pic precisely to see how he’d react.</p>
<p>Ceill was no fighter, but he had a saving grace—when he was attacked, the part of him that felt things simply shut down for a while. No one ever had the satisfaction of seeing him cry. Now he felt his face go rigid as concrete as he passed the printout back to Ludo, the contact singing his fingers. “Thanks,” he said.</p>
<p>“You <em>do </em>know who that is?”</p>
<p>If he pretended not to know, Ludo would tell him. “Of course.”</p>
<p>Ludo leaned in, arching a brow. “Do you know everything?”</p>
<p>The most important thing to remember at this school was never to care too much about anything except your scores and your name. <em>People in Redda care about names</em>, Tilrey had told Ceill long ago, and he was right. Tilrey was the one who’d told him what to do when other kids bothered him, too: <em>Stand tall, look them in the eye, and know you’re as good as they are or better</em>.</p>
<p>Ceill tried to arch his brow like Ludo’s. He searched his mind for the crudest description, knowing that Tilrey would forgive him (if Tilrey ever knew, which he wouldn’t) because he <em>had </em>to do this to save face. “He fucks my dad, so yeah, I know him.”</p>
<p>“You know he used to be a <em>piece</em>?” Ludo’s eyes were saucers, eager for scandal. “That’s why there’s this photo of him. You know what a piece is?”</p>
<p>Ceill knew enough. He knew that Tilrey was friends with a great many Councillors, or at least on intimate terms with them. He knew how unusual this was for a Skeinsha. For the past year or so, his dad had given him frustratingly vague warnings: <em>You may hear things about Tilrey’s past. Please don’t let that ever affect your view of him, or of my relationship with him. Redda can be unkind.</em></p>
<p>But Ceill hadn’t really understood until he watched <em>So Close</em>, the wildly popular and controversial sob-stream. It was about a boy from an Upstart family who scored so poorly on his E-Squareds that he had to sleep with a Councillor to keep himself from being Lowered. The hero befriended another Councillor’s kettle boy who taught him to manipulate the Councillor. As he watched, everything Ceill knew began to make a lot more sense.</p>
<p>The only person he dared ask for confirmation was Morten Birun, who was the son of Bror Birun, an old friend of Tilrey’s, and two years ahead of him at school. Morten was the type of guy who wouldn’t even bother to take the E-Squareds; he spent all his time wisecracking, smoking pipes, and chasing girls.</p>
<p>Morten wasn’t fazed by Ceill’s carefully worded question. “Sure,” he said. “My dad and Tilrey, that’s how they know each other—they both did it. There’s no shame in it, you know, for a Drudge. You can really boost your R-level that way.”</p>
<p>Now Ceill tried to seem just as casual. “Sure, I know what that is. What about it?”</p>
<p>Ludo looked like he’d wanted a bigger reaction. He waggled his eyebrows. “That boy was a real choice piece, my great-uncle says. He’s old now, though, right? How long’ve he and your dad been together?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. Since before I was born.” Hearing Tilrey talked about this way was wrong. Ceill wanted to say so, to draw a line. But he couldn’t tell Ludo that Tilrey had taught him to ski and read and possibly even helped him take his first steps. He couldn’t admit that he sometimes used to call <em>both</em> of them “Daddy.”</p>
<p>“And he lives with your dad? In his apartment?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.” Where was this going? Ceill wondered uncomfortably if he should say something crude again, just to prove how little he cared.</p>
<p>“Oh man, that would be such a trip. Even though he’s old now . . . I dunno. Just knowing he was <em>with</em> all those people. Wasn’t that how they met in the first place? Because another Councillor <em>gave </em>him to your dad?”</p>
<p>Ceill was starting to feel dizzy, as if all the air were being sucked out of the gym. <em>Stand tall, look them in the eye</em>, he told himself desperately, hearing the words in Tilrey’s voice. <em>You’re better than they are. You’re better</em>.</p>
<p>“And you know what’s even weirder?”</p>
<p>Ludo was way into Ceill’s space now, and Ceill felt as helpless as someone in a nightmare. “What?” he asked.</p>
<p>“He looks just like you.”</p>
<p>Ceill’s mind went blank. But Ludo held up the photo again, right in his face, and before he could stop himself, he saw what Ludo meant.</p>
<p>Like many people his age, Ceill had only a faltering sense of how he looked. Ever since his growth spurt, he’d avoided mirrors because they embarrassed him. Was that tall, ungainly boy really himself?</p>
<p>But he saw his likeness in this photo in a way he’d never seen it when he was looking straight at Tilrey. Tilrey was . . . Tilrey. This boy in the bathrobe by the window, looking so sad and lost, was Tilrey but also a stranger. With the wide-set eyes, the coloring, the cheekbones, he was a stranger who could have been Ceill.</p>
<p>And he was someone that people like Ludo discussed in whispers. <em>A real choice piece</em>.</p>
<p>Ceill snatched the printout from Ludo’s hand and tore it in half. He ripped the pieces in half again and in half again. He tossed them in the air.</p>
<p>“I’m a Linnett and a Gádden,” he said, terror closing his throat. But he knew how to keep his chin up, just like all his high-named ancestors had, just like Tilrey had taught him to. He knew how to look a tormentor in the eye and keep his voice steady, his feelings safe in that hidden place inside him.</p>
<p>“Mind how you talk about me,” he said. “I don’t even know what you’re suggesting, Akeina, but if you do it again, I’ll knock you flat. I’ve lived in Thurskein with all the brutes, so I know how.”</p>
<p>Then he turned on his heel and walked away too fast, absolutely positive that Ludo was grinning behind him.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Tilrey was experimenting with wearing glasses. He didn’t need them, except for tiny print, but they made him look a little more serious, a little older. And he could use them for emphasis, as he did now, raising them as he shifted his gaze from the page on the lectern to the assembled Councillors sitting below him in the Chamber.</p>
<p>“If this bill were to pass, Fira,” he said in his most serious voice, “it would be a grave blow to one of the most precious principles of our Republic: the equality of opportunity.”</p>
<p>The full Council stared back at him. Saldegren, the Peninsula minority leader, looked intent on what Tilrey was saying. So did Gourmanian and Lindthardt. Enrik Lindahl, Alicia Linden, and Vreya Akeina were scowling the way they always did when he rose to speak, but they seemed to be listening, too. Good. Davita Lindblom looked smug, as if she’d taught Tilrey to give speeches herself (she hadn’t). Besha was doodling in his notepad, but he doodled through every session.</p>
<p>With his eyes still on them, Tilrey delivered the rhetorical coup de grâce: “Does anyone here want that on their conscience?”</p>
<p>He waited, letting that sink in. Then he cleared his throat and shuffled his papers into a stack. In a monotone, he added, “Such is the verbatim statement entrusted to me by Fir Councillor Gádden, as whose proxy I serve. Though indisposed to attend this session, he asks you to accept the words as his own.”</p>
<p>It was a wonder anyone still took the formula seriously after hearing Tilrey recite it regularly for the past thirteen years. But he knew most of the Council had no choice but to take it at face value, for a simple reason: The alternative was to accept the reality that <em>he</em> was, for all intents and purposes, the Councillor.</p>
<p>As he left the podium, he cast a glance, as always, at the centuries-old Council table. No one actually sat there; it couldn’t hold the modern, forty-five-seat Council. But it remained on the podium, a reminder of the early Councils that had given birth to the Republic.</p>
<p>Tilrey had his own memories of that table. When he was eighteen, Malsha Linnett, then the General Magistrate, had brought him to see the Chamber after hours, then backed him up against the ancient table and kissed him. (It was the same night he’d first met Gersha.) When he was twenty, Majority Leader Verán had made him climb onto the table and fucked him there. Tilrey remembered how hard the wood felt under his knees; how he’d stared straight ahead at the paneling on the opposite wall, teeth clenched, determined not to make a noise or shed a tear.</p>
<p>Both those men were dead now. He was still here.</p>
<p>Before he could return to his seat at the rear of the amphitheater, the page announced a recess. Tilrey folded his glasses and followed the Councillors into the hall for a cup of tea.</p>
<p>The long speech had parched his throat. He’d been preparing for several days, rehearsing it for Gersha, and now that he could finally relax, his thoughts skittered aimlessly, refusing to focus.</p>
<p>These days, Tilrey brought his own loose tea blend from home. He’d shown Gersha how to grow it from bonsai tea trees and home roast it, just as Malsha had taught him long ago, and Gersha amused himself by creating ever-improved blends, supplementing them with imports from Harbour.</p>
<p>Today it was a classic smoky mixture—Tilrey’s favorite. As he drenched the sachet with water from the steel dispenser and breathed in the fragrant steam, he heard a familiar voice rise over the crowd.</p>
<p>Councillor Saldegren was holding forth, drawing murmurs and titters from the surrounding Councillors. The old man had a pleasant voice—ringing and resonant, perfect for a politician—and for a moment Tilrey heard only the music of it.</p>
<p>Then he heard the words.</p>
<p>“—such a tragedy to see him always in those drab jerkins,” Saldegren was saying. “You should have seen him in the old days, when he was dressed up like us—sweet little high-collared tunics, always cinched so very tight at the waist. And what a waist! He was positively ravishing.”</p>
<p>Someone else said something Tilrey didn’t hear. There was laughter. Tilrey gave a start as hot water overflowed the cup onto his hand.</p>
<p>There could only be one person Saldegren was describing. Tilrey poured out the excess water and turned around slowly, deliberately.</p>
<p>Saldegren had gone quiet. The whole hall was suspiciously still, in fact. A woman laughed, he couldn’t tell who.</p>
<p>For a bare instant, Tilrey caught Saldegren’s eye. He was tempted to speak up then and there, for once, but to have it out in public would be foolish. All the assembled Councillors would feel offended by his speaking out of turn, and they would complain among themselves and even to Gersha. No, he would wait until the statements were over and they all returned to their offices.</p>
<p>It wasn’t the first time Tilrey had heard such comments, of course—about his appearance, his past, and how much his very presence “livened up” the Council Chamber. He always let them slide off his back. In the early years, when he had no choice, he’d even smiled and played along.</p>
<p>But it was time to draw a line, and it made sense to start with Vanya Saldegren. The man was an ally, at least when he wasn’t asserting his independence with capricious swing votes. He was a friend of Gersha’s and claimed to be a friend of Tilrey’s. He had dined with them half a dozen times over the years, bringing sesame biscuits for Ceill and telling the boy silly stories and exclaiming on how much he’d grown. And, if Tilrey wasn’t entirely comfortable with the way Vanya looked at him, or the memories that Vanya’s presence aroused, he always smiled and held his tongue.</p>
<p>For the man to behave this way, however, was unacceptable. He couldn’t let it go.</p>
<p>All the same, two hours later, he had to steel himself to knock at the door of Saldegren’s office.</p>
<p>It didn’t help that the woman who opened up was a Sector veteran, Saldegren’s secretary for the past twenty-five years. She took one look at Tilrey and hoisted an iron-gray brow. “Fir Councillor’s busy, Bronn. Unless you had a prior appointment?” Her expression told him exactly what she thought a “prior appointment” might involve.</p>
<p>“No.” Tilrey stepped past her into the antichamber. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d obliged Vanya in this office, getting on his knees to speed the passage of a bill. It wasn’t his fault if she could. “I’ll wait here for him.”</p>
<p>The brow arched higher. “This isn’t a lobby.”</p>
<p>Tilrey went over to the window and nudged a shutter aside. “Then I’ll wait standing up. I know he’s always here after the session, Krimheld,” he added, peering into the black winter night.</p>
<p>He heard a sigh. Then the click of the inner door, and voices behind it—the secretary irritated, Saldegren reassuring.</p>
<p>The door opened again, and Vanya Saldegren emerged, beaming warmly as he beckoned Tilrey into the inner office. He’d always been a big man with an expansive presence, and advancing age had scarcely shrunken him. “Always a pleasure, Rishka,” he boomed. “And how is Gersha these days? It’s been too long.”</p>
<p>The Councillor closed the door on his disapproving secretary, sat down at his desk, and waved at the second chair. “I hope he’s not actually indisposed?”</p>
<p>Tilrey was tempted to stay standing, but the offer of a seat was a gesture of respect. He took it. “You know Gersha. He’ll take any excuse to stay by the hearth and work on his database—and Ceill’s needed some tutoring lately.”</p>
<p>“Such a devoted father, that Gersha.” Vanya actually looked misty-eyed. “I wish I’d had more time with mine when they were young.”</p>
<p>“Yes, it goes quickly.” But Tilrey couldn’t get sidetracked by platitudes. He fixed his gaze on Vanya, hard.</p>
<p>The man’s smile faded. “What’s the matter, lad?”</p>
<p>Tilrey drew out the silence a few seconds longer. He was in uncharted territory, but long-simmering anger swept away his usual careful politeness. He and Vanya knew each other so well, and not at all. “You’re asking me what’s the matter? After this afternoon?”</p>
<p>Vanya looked blank, as if replaying the events of the afternoon in his head. “Oh,” he said at last, casual. “I was rude—forgive me. I should have kept my voice lower.”</p>
<p>Tilrey’s throat tightened. Vanya would see his white knuckles on the chair arm, but he didn’t care. “That’s all you have to say? That I wasn’t meant to overhear?”</p>
<p>“Well, of course not.” Another affable, well-bred smile. “To be honest, though, Rishka, I didn’t expect you to react this way. Surely you’ve heard worse over the years.”</p>
<p>“Yes.” <em>And I didn’t like it then, either. </em>Vanya had a point, though—how could he object now when he’d never appeared to before?</p>
<p>Vanya went on: “We all have long memories here in the Sector, and the past . . . well, you do have a past, don’t you?”</p>
<p>Tilrey wasn’t good with anger. Over the course of several long discussions with Gersha—longer than he would have liked—he had confessed that his go-to strategy when he felt murderous rage was to smile coldly and submit and dare the object of his rage to hurt him. A heady cocktail of pain and hatred and dissociation made everything better.</p>
<p>But he couldn’t do that anymore, he and Gersha had agreed—or only in play. In real life, he needed to “be himself.” Never mind that he barely knew where to start.</p>
<p>Tilrey cleared his throat, fighting the sensation of choking. His voice was a problem; it was deep, which meant he had to work to keep it from sounding intimidating. If Saldegren actually felt threatened, things could shift between them in a disastrous way.</p>
<p>He said, “I know I’ve let it go for years, Fir—Vanya. But I shouldn’t have. And that’s why I’m here: to tell you that kind of talk isn’t acceptable to me, or at least not from you. You can’t support Gersha in the Chamber and turn around and make me into an object of . . . mockery.”</p>
<p>Saldegren’s brows drew together, snowy on his brown forehead. He looked genuinely confused. “Mockery? I was paying you a compliment. It’s not like people don’t notice that you <em>are </em>a ravishing boy.”</p>
<p>Tilrey leapt to his feet, but there was nowhere to go. He just couldn’t sit anymore. “You do know how old I am?” Saldegren looked blank, so he supplied the answer: “Forty-three.”</p>
<p>Vanya looked horrified by the reminder that he himself was pushing seventy. “You mustn’t <em>say </em>things like that. Verdant hells, you don’t have a wrinkle or a gray streak. You don’t dye your hair, do you?”</p>
<p>Tilrey just looked at him.</p>
<p>“Clearly not.” Vanya sighed. “I see this bothers you, and I’m sorry. But you can’t expect people just to forget who you are—who you were. There are so many . . . memories.”</p>
<p>As he spoke, he played with a pen, his eyes going dreamy. Tilrey could imagine which memories the Councillor was reliving.</p>
<p>There was the very first time, when he’d gone to his knees in Saldegren’s living room—young and scared, sent by Malsha as a gift to cement a political alliance. There were the many nights after that, when Vanya was voracious and tender by turns, insistent on what he called “mutual pleasures” even when Tilrey wanted to be done already and fall asleep. There was the time Vanya arranged for a photographer to take artful nudes of him—pictures that were still circulating, Tilrey knew all too well.</p>
<p>Tilrey had never quite forgiven Saldegren for those photographs. But he’d still returned, years later, to this very office whenever he needed to make sure the man would support Gersha. He’d still traded on that old affection.</p>
<p>He knew where Vanya had birthmarks, knew the texture of his skin, knew how the man’s cock felt down his throat and what it responded to. But that wasn’t the point.</p>
<p>He sat down again. Squared his shoulders. Placed his hands at his sides. “I’m not asking you to forget anything, Vanya. What we had . . .” <em>Wasn’t real.</em> “Was meaningful to you, I know. But when we’re here in the Sector, I need people to see me differently. I need them to respect me. As Gersha’s proxy, of course,” he added, forcing the last words out.</p>
<p>“Yes, but that’s just the issue.” Saldegren regarded Tilrey with his large, liquid brown eyes. “You and Gersha have an unusual relationship, and it’s even more unusual for a secretary to play the role in the Council that you do. Some would say it’s unprecedented. Furthermore, unacceptable.”</p>
<p>Again Tilrey’s throat tightened, but he kept his voice even. “Are you saying that?”</p>
<p>“Of course not! Those of us who are older understand your unique bond with Gersha. We know what a loyal, steadfast, capable boy you are. But you should know, Tilrey, that some of my younger colleagues are rather baffled by the whole situation. They ask me about you—what have you done with Gersha? Can we be sure he’s even fit to serve, considering we only see him a day or two out of every ten? Should there be an investigation?”</p>
<p>Tilrey knew all this. He had his spies. “That’s mainly Akeina, and she mistrusts me because of her personal history. No one takes her seriously, not even her husband.”</p>
<p>“For now, perhaps.” Saldegren’s eyes narrowed. “But Vreya’s a hard worker, and she could rise fast. What I’m trying to say here is that, when I talk slightingly of you in Chambers, I’m actually laying the groundwork for your defense.”</p>
<p>For a moment, Tilrey was a teenager again, listening in awe to the Councillor’s convoluted eloquence. Then he snapped back to himself. “I don’t follow.”</p>
<p>Vanya folded his arms on the desk. “Don’t you, my lad? The <em>less</em> the Council respects you, the more amusing and trivial they find you, the more easily they accept you.”</p>
<p>“So you’re saying—”</p>
<p>“I’m saying that <em>you</em> need to accept your role. Which I thought you did, because you played it so well—until today.”</p>
<p>Sometimes, when Tilrey was really upset, he still heard Malsha Linnett’s voice in his head. This time it dictated words to him, along with their icy tone: “If you think I <em>enjoy</em> being leered at and made the butt of jokes, you’re a bigger fool than I ever imagined.”</p>
<p>Vanya’s self-satisfied look faded. “I’m going to ignore the tone you just took with me. You seem so unhappy today, Rishka. Sometimes I feel like I don’t know you at all. I could almost swear you want to <em>really </em>replace Gersha.”</p>
<p>Maybe Tilrey was an idiot. Probably he was a idiot. But words rose to his lips, and he said them: “I don’t need to replace Gersha. <em>I</em> wrote the statement I read today. I write everything I read in the Chamber—I have for years. Gersha does no more than offer a few edits.” He managed to stop short of drawing the logical conclusion: <em>Gersha never wanted to be the Councillor, and he isn’t anymore. I am.</em></p>
<p>Vanya stared at Tilrey, his expression unchanging. “I will,” he said at last, “pretend I never heard that. And you, I hope, will have the sense never to mention it again.”</p>
<p>Tilrey knew he was receiving a kindness. There was no way for a high-named Upstart of either party to hear what he’d just said and not report him as a subversive or a madman. Still, he ached with the desire to make Vanya acknowledge that he <em>had </em>heard and understood the truth of who Tilrey was—not a “ravishing boy,” not a compliant secretary, but a player of this game in his own right.</p>
<p>He swallowed the desire. This wasn’t the time. Maybe there never would be a time. He rose to his feet, deliberately this time, and clasped his hands behind his back.</p>
<p>“I appreciate your attempts to make me more palatable to your colleagues, Fir,” he said in his most formal way, “and the spirit of alliance that inspires them. But I fear you may have overplayed your hand and turned me into a laughingstock. I don’t see how this serves our joint goals.”</p>
<p><em>Ah, that’s it, </em>Malsha whispered inside Tilrey, as contrition snuck over Vanya’s face. <em>You very nearly ruined everything, but this save will do just fine. Appeal to his dignity. His better nature.</em></p>
<p>Tilrey tried to ignore the inner voice, but he could feel his own going cold again in imitation of it. “I hope you’ll forgive me my outburst just now. It was way out of line.”</p>
<p>Vanya said quickly, “Of course.”</p>
<p>“Our past means something to me, too.” The words tasted bitter. “But, from now on, I shall expect you to limit your fond reminiscences to informal settings like the Lounge, where I am not present. When I am, you can treat me like any other secretary—no winks, no nudges, no anecdotes, just business. Is that understood, Fir?” Tilrey paused. “Or is it too much to ask?”</p>
<p>Vanya looked at Tilrey with eyes that were bright with the beginnings of tears. “All you really had to do was ask, lad. You know I can’t refuse you anything.”</p>
<p><em>You’ve just made it clear what you refuse to do. </em>But Tilrey knew he’d gotten the biggest concession he was likely to get. There was no sense in ruining things. “You do me honor with your trust, Fir,” he said and held out his hand across the Councillor’s desk, palm down to express his subordination.</p>
<p>Saldegren grasped the hand and squeezed. “Send Gersha my good wishes,” he said. “Tell him I thrilled to the eloquence of his statement today, and I feel sure it will destroy any remaining support for that nasty Island bill. I hope we can all dine together again soon.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As the plane powered over the Wastes on its way to Thurskein, Ceill couldn’t stop seeing the photograph.</p>
<p>He would never tell anyone, obviously. He was old enough to keep secrets. But he couldn’t stop remembering the sad, faraway look on the young Tilrey’s face. How many people would Ludo Akeina show that photo to? When Ceill came back after break, would everyone know?</p>
<p>Know what, exactly? Ceill was a Linnett and a Gádden, the son of an Admin and a Councillor, the great-grandson of a General Magistrate. He would never, ever be a kettle boy, and if anyone suggested otherwise, he would lift his chin and stare them down the way Tilrey and his grandmother had taught him to.</p>
<p>All the same, they could make things hard for him. There were worse nicknames than “Dak Drudgebound.”</p>
<p>He tried to stop thinking about it, but there was nothing to see outside and no one to talk to. Dad was napping in the aisle seat, his head pillowed against Tilrey’s shoulder. Tilrey was reading the <em>Council Record</em> on Dad’s handheld, peering at it through those little glasses of his.</p>
<p>He must have felt Ceill’s eyes linger guiltily on him, because he looked up. “What’s going on? Did you want to see something on here?”</p>
<p>“No.” Ceill couldn’t stop fidgeting, his legs too long for the space. Kids weren’t supposed to use handhelds unless they were being supervised in the classroom, but Dad sometimes let him anyway. Laborers weren’t supposed to use handhelds <em>ever</em>, but here was Tilrey doing it right out in the open like rules didn’t apply to him. Maybe they didn’t, or maybe he just thought they didn’t. It made Ceill worry.</p>
<p>Tilrey darkened the handheld and slipped it into Dad’s bag. “We should be on the ground in another half-hour. Gersha tells me you’re eager to run off to this fitness contest first thing tomorrow?”</p>
<p>Ceill nodded. But Tilrey’s worried look dampened his eagerness. “I’m meeting Vlen there,” he said, trying to sound like it didn’t matter.</p>
<p>Tilrey took off the glasses. His brow stayed furrowed. “I know you’re excited about being outdoors, and I’m not saying you shouldn’t go. But . . . you do know who organizes these contests?”</p>
<p>“The Coalition for Sector Six Fitness.” Before Tilrey could object, Ceill added, “I <em>know </em>that’s really the Free Northmen. Grandma Lisha gave me the whole speech about them last time, how they try to recruit kids and make them swear seditious oaths and grow beards.”</p>
<p>Tilrey laughed—a surprised rumble. “I’m not worried about you growing a beard just yet.”</p>
<p><em>Because you think I’m still a kid. </em>Ceill’s jaw clenched. None of his parents had the slightest idea what he had to deal with. “I used to go to school in Thurskein,” he pointed out. “I know more about the Northmen than you do, or even Grandma Lisha. You don’t have to grow a beard or long hair to show you’re with them. Some kids just roll up their trousers, or sew a black patch to their scarf.”</p>
<p>“Does your friend Vlen do that?”</p>
<p>For an instant, Ceill wished he could say that Vlen was a true-blue Free Northman just to see the look on Tilrey’s face. But that might kill his chances of getting near the ice wall. “No. Vlen’s boring now. He never does anything his ma and uncle don’t want him to.”</p>
<p>“So, if that makes Vlen boring, do you think the Northmen are interesting?”</p>
<p>“No!” Ceill squirmed. Tilrey had a way of catching your eye that made it impossible to look away. What would Ludo Akeina think if he could see this—Tilrey practically scolding him as if he were Ceill’s dad? And Ceill not even objecting?</p>
<p>“I mean,” he said, “they are interesting, but I’m not going to join them. I probably couldn’t anyway, because the Northmen don’t like people who live in Redda. Or Upstarts.”</p>
<p>“So you know something about their belief system.” Tilrey was using the frustratingly neutral voice that he always used to try to trap you into admitting things. He was much better at hiding his feelings than Mom or Dad, but Ceill knew his tricks. “Have they tried to recruit you?”</p>
<p>“No!” Ceill knew he should keep his voice down while his dad was sleeping, but he’d had enough of this interrogation. “I like being outdoors, and I like skiing and running and climbing and winning contests, and I don’t give a damn about politics. That’s <em>your</em> thing.”</p>
<p>Tilrey raised his eyebrows, presumably at the language. That gave Ceill the rush of anger he needed to plow on: “And if the Northmen did try to recruit me, it would actually be none of your business, because you aren’t my dad.” He glared into Tilrey’s face, which had gone maddeningly impassive again. “Whenever we’re all three together, you act like you’re in charge, and Dad lets you, but you’re actually not. You’re nothing.”</p>
<p>The instant the words were out, Ceill wished he hadn’t said them, yet he was glad he had, too. Tilrey stayed in the Sector so late these days that he sometimes didn’t even feel like part of their family. It wasn’t fair of him to start scolding Ceill the instant they were together, especially when Ceill was already being lectured by his mother on a regular basis.</p>
<p>He didn’t <em>really</em> think Tilrey was nothing. Only idiots like Ludo thought that. But the idiots seemed to be in control of his school, and could he help that? Everybody wanted something different from him, when it would be a lot less confusing if they would just let him be himself.</p>
<p>Turning to the dark window so he wouldn’t have to see Tilrey’s reaction, he finished, “And I’m old enough to see that now.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>“Ceillsha,” Gersha begged. “What’s going on with you and Tilrey? Was there a fight?”</p>
<p>Tilrey had stepped out to help Lisha in the kitchen, and Gersha had seized the moment to try and find out why his husband and son were barely speaking to each other. Ceill’s face was sullen and unreadable, so like Tilrey’s in the old days that the sight delivered a tiny stab to Gersha’s heart. When had their son gotten so good at hiding his feelings? Why did he think he needed to?</p>
<p>“He doesn’t want me to be in the contest tomorrow,” the boy said. “He thinks they’ll recruit me—the Free Northmen.”</p>
<p>Gersha had to remind himself who the Free Northmen were. Anti-government agitators. Beards. Religion. “Nonsense,” he said. “Tilrey knows you can think for yourself, and we both know you’ve been looking forward to the contest. That ice wall you keep talking about, though—I don’t want you on there. Not without ropes.”</p>
<p>Ceill’s blue eyes widened. “Nobody’s using ropes, and that’s not the point. The point is—”</p>
<p>But then Lisha and Tilrey returned, carrying steaming platters of rice and greens, and the sentence stayed unfinished.</p>
<p>After their tense, quiet dinner, Gersha tried again to grab a moment alone with Ceill. But the boy didn’t seem to want to talk to anyone but his grandmother. When she suggested a game of Solemn Spruce, he immediately agreed, while Tilrey, who hated cards, took the opportunity to retire to bed.</p>
<p>Gersha didn’t much like cards, either, but he suffered through three games before he followed his husband back to their suite. “I’ll see you tomorrow for dinner if I don’t see you for breakfast,” he said, hugging his son tight. “I’m sure you’ll trounce everyone in your age group. But do stay away from that wall.”</p>
<p>Ceill seemed more relaxed now that Tilrey was gone. “I will,” he mumbled in that new deep voice of his, which Gersha was still getting used to.</p>
<p>In the bedroom of their suite, Gersha found Tilrey reading a sheaf of intelligence briefings. They were classified, of course, marked for the Councillor’s eyes only. But these days, unless a briefing was related to Harbour and the garrison there—which both of them monitored—Gersha didn’t even bother to read it before handing it over. Domestic policy was Tilrey’s affair.</p>
<p>Ever since their time in the Southern Hearth, Gersha had little patience for the current Republic. He wished they could have their revolution already, tear it down, and start over. In his spare time, he’d been drafting a constitution and law code for post-revolutionary Oslov, using a cipher of his own invention. He didn’t imagine the True Hearth would ever adopt his ideas without ample debate, but it made him feel better to envision the world he wanted his son to grow up in.</p>
<p>“What was that all about?” he asked, unfastening his tunic and letting it slip to the floor. “I feel like I’m in a war zone.”</p>
<p>“Didn’t you hear enough on the flight? We didn’t exactly keep our voices down.”</p>
<p>“I barely heard anything before you both lapsed into silent glaring.” Gersha pulled off his trousers and reached for a robe. “Ceill says you don’t want him in that contest.”</p>
<p>Tilrey laid aside the papers, looking vexed. “I said no such thing! I know how much he cares about it. I just reminded him not to let himself get sucked in.”</p>
<p>“Why would he be sucked in?” Gersha got into bed and slid over to Tilrey. “Aren’t the Northmen trying to bring back the old Feudal religion? I mean, it’s quaint, and I see how it appeals to the elders here and their sense of tradition, but it doesn’t seem like anything that would interest a thirteen-year-old boy.”</p>
<p>Tilrey sighed. “You haven’t been paying attention, Gersha. It may have started with the elders, but the Northmen have a young leader now, and they’re competing with the True Hearth for young recruits. They want to replace us and take over Thurskein’s underground, starting with Sector Six.”</p>
<p>Politics, always politics, and too many factions to keep track of. Gersha knew he should feel concerned, but there was already so much to worry about.</p>
<p>The Dissidents of the Southern Hearth had just begun their long-planned infiltration of Bettevy. Five Oslovs had paddled across the lake in the dead of night to the city, where they would settle and blend in with the Harbourer population. The objective was to take control of Bettevy’s rich trading hub over a decade or more from the inside, with the Duke of Bettevy’s consent and cooperation. But that depended on none of the defectors being caught by Oslov troops and shipped back home for interrogation.</p>
<p>By comparison, the Northmen, who were confined to Thurskein, didn’t seem like much of an threat—unless they <em>knew</em> about the Southern Hearth. “Have the Northmen betrayed any Hearth operatives to Int/Sec?” Gersha asked.</p>
<p>“No, no, nothing like that. Aleks Snowblind—that’s their leader—hates the Republic more than he loves power. He’d like to thin our ranks, but he’d never rat us out.” Tilrey slumped against Gersha, his head on his husband’s shoulder. “We’ve tried to assimilate the Northmen, but they go their own way. And their own way is tribalist, populist, authoritarian. They want to be a warrior band, and they lure young men with promises of power. I don’t want Ceill anywhere near that.”</p>
<p>Gersha understood now. “And Ceill feels like you don’t trust him.”</p>
<p>“All I did was caution him. Make him aware!” Tilrey twisted to look up at Gersha, eyes pleading.</p>
<p>Gersha wound an arm around him, fighting the sinking sensation in his gut. “Something more happened. What did he say to you?”</p>
<p>In the half-light, Tilrey looked almost as young as Ceill. “You remember what I’ve been warning you this whole time?” he said. “Since he was eight. That eventually he’ll figure out how his peers see me. What I’m famous for.”</p>
<p>“He is <em>not </em>going to reject you because of some schoolyard bullies. He’s just being difficult.” Were Tilrey’s eyes bright with tears, or just frustration? Gersha pulled him close. “Hey. What did he say to you?”</p>
<p>“I’m not going to tell tales on the kid.” Tilrey sat rigid as Gersha rubbed his shoulders. “He’s under a lot of pressure. I think we can both understand that.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, but that doesn’t excuse being an ass or disrespectful. I will <em>not </em>accept any scenario where you’re less involved in his life. Understand?”</p>
<p>“I’m barely involved in his life now, and that could end up being for the best.”</p>
<p>“Rishka. Don’t even say that.” Gersha kissed his husband’s forehead. “Look, I’ve been patient about this because I was outnumbered—you and Vera against me. But I think it’s time. We need to tell him.”</p>
<p>This time, it took nearly a full minute for Tilrey to reply. At last he went limp in Gersha’s arms, face pressed to Gersha’s chest, seeking comfort in the way he so often had in their early years together.</p>
<p>“I confronted Vanya Saldegren yesterday,” he said. “He tried to shame me in front of his colleagues and then had the gall to tell me it was his way of protecting me. I said enough is enough.”</p>
<p>“And he?”</p>
<p>“He agreed to show me a modicum of respect. Not especially graciously, but he agreed.”</p>
<p>Gersha stroked Tilrey’s shoulders, his hair. “That’s wonderful. It’s been a long time coming.”</p>
<p>“You’re patronizing me again, my love.”</p>
<p>“And you’re trying to change the subject. You’re very good at that.”</p>
<p>“I <em>am</em> good at evasion, but that’s not what I’m doing.” Tilrey inched up Gersha’s chest, nudged the robe open, and nuzzled his collarbone. “What I’m trying to say is, change takes time. You have to take tiny steps. As for telling Ceill, that’s not my decision.”</p>
<p>Tilrey’s kisses on his neck, warm and soft, were making Gersha lose the thread of his thoughts. “It is, though,” he persisted. “Don’t do that thing where you pretend to hand all the responsibility over to your ‘betters’ because you don’t want to be honest about how you feel. And now you’re totally distracting me.”</p>
<p>“Is it distracting to tell you that I want to be fucked very hard?” Tilrey asked innocently. He planted a kiss on Gersha’s lips. “You want my honest opinion? I wish we didn’t have to tell Ceill. I wish he could go on seeing himself as a Linnett and a Gádden his whole life. It would save him a hell of a lot of pain.”</p>
<p>“Linnetts and Gáddens may not matter . . . soon.” Gersha thought fondly of his imagined new Oslov. “So much of our world might not matter.”</p>
<p>“Mmmm. But we’re still living in it for now, aren’t we?”</p>
<p>Gersha tried to find the presence of mind for a rebuttal. All he could think about were Tilrey’s arms, now securely wrapped around him.</p>
<p>Tilrey saved him the trouble by kissing him again, deep and leisurely. “But,” he said after their mouths parted, “it’s not fair to let the kid grow up believing a lie. I understand that.”</p>
<p>Gersha was still catching his breath. “We agree on something, then.”</p>
<p>“The thing is, it should be unanimous. And that means you’re going to need to talk to your wife.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Wind whistled past Ceill’s ears as he sailed down the slope, flat on his belly on the toboggan. All around him, cheers and shouts and bells rang out, and he had to force his attention back to the course in front of him.</p>
<p>A stretch of ice gleamed under the floodlights. He braced himself for the burst of speed and yanked hard on the rudder to keep himself from flying off the course, his heart jolting.</p>
<p>He was so close to being in the lead. He’d won the skiing leg of the competition and easily navigated the obstacle course, but a skinny little boy named Brai, who he didn’t recognize from his schooldays here, had bested him at rope climbing and ended up winning that leg.</p>
<p>Now he and Brai were neck and neck on their sleds, the blue banner of the finish line in sight. Ceill dug his cramponed boot into the icy snow and steered the toboggan hard to the right, aiming for what looked like a half-buried ramp. The slope was starting to level off. If he could just get some air, he might edge ahead.</p>
<p>For an instant, he was gloriously airborne. He could see everything—the floodlights, the torches, the crowd. Beyond stretched the vast, curving bulk of Thurskein on one side and the blackness of the barrier wall on the other, keeping them safe from the Wastes.</p>
<p>If Dad had been here, Ceill would have scanned the crowd for him, worried about seeing fear on his face. To his relief, though, the organizers had chosen to bar family members from the contest. This was his day, and there was no one to beg him to slow down or be careful.</p>
<p>The toboggan thudded to earth and immediately fishtailed to the left, the rudder twisting in Ceill’s hands. He was still trying desperately to regain control when he skidded over the finish line, a whole meter behind that miserable Brai.</p>
<p>Ceill braked the sled inches from the onlookers, hauled himself up, and just barely managed not to stamp his foot. He always had to exemplify dignity when he was in ’Skein, according to his mother. But <em>shit.</em></p>
<p>“You did it! You did it!” Vlen, who’d arrived several places behind Ceill, grabbed him and spun him around. “You’re second in our year!”</p>
<p><em>Only first place matters. </em>The first-place winner would get a chance to try the course for the Fourteens today. If they placed well there, they would go on to the course for the Fifteens, the one with the ten-meter ice wall. Ceill was shut out of that now, with a whole year to wait for another chance.</p>
<p><em>It’s not fair! </em>he wanted to shout. But of course it was fair, he just didn’t like it.</p>
<p>He forced himself to smile and turn to Brai and shake his hand—palm to palm, equals. “Well done,” he said magnanimously.</p>
<p>A pretty red-cheeked girl with long, loose hair was giving out prizes. “To the victor,” she said, bobbing her head at Brai, and then handed him a skein of bright orange yarn.</p>
<p>Ceill was mystified, but Brai didn’t seem to be. He tugged the scarf from around his neck and gave it to the girl, passing back the yarn along with it. “Thank you for giving us such a good race, Lina,” he said in his wispy little voice. “It was a pleasure to run. May the Spark light your way.”</p>
<p>“And yours, brother.”</p>
<p>Ceill winced in embarrassment. In Redda, only the lowest Laborers ever talked about the Spark. But the Free Northmen seemed very into it; he’d already heard several such exchanges today.</p>
<p>“What’s the point of the scarf?” he asked Vlen in an undertone as they headed to the refreshments table for a warm drink.</p>
<p>“It’s sort of like end-of-term honors at school.” Vlen grabbed a handful of dry salt-biscuits. “When you win fitness contests, you earn yarn stripes, and they sew them on your regulation scarf to make it special. Every color means something.”</p>
<p>He gestured at two older girls who were passing, and Ceill saw that their scarves were a mess of added stripes, blue and pink and orange, so many that you could barely see the regulation gray. Now that he looked closely, most of the older kids had doctored scarves, and all of the adults.</p>
<p>“I wish I had one,” Vlen said, following Ceill’s gaze. “You’re basically nobody at school if you don’t. But my folks would pitch a fit.”</p>
<p>“Why?” Then he remembered that Vlen’s parents were anti-Free Northmen, just like Tilrey. “I mean, the scarf thing doesn’t necessarily mean you’re joining, does it?”</p>
<p>“It kind of does,” Vlen said sadly.</p>
<p>So that was why the girl hadn’t given Ceill a skein of yarn, even though she’d handed them to the third- and fourth-place finishers. “It’s not fair,” he ventured.</p>
<p>Vlen sighed heavily as if he’d been having the same thought. “My aunt says someday they’ll all be arrested and locked up, and then I’ll be glad I didn’t join. But, I mean, <em>everybody’s </em>joining. They can’t lock them all up.”</p>
<p>They joined the crowd on the sidelines of the Fourteens’ course, waiting to cheer Brai on. Now that he’d started spotting decorated scarves in the crowd, Ceill couldn’t stop seeing them, and he felt a painful pull in his chest. Imagine wearing something that told people at a glance that you were strong and fast and special, set apart from other people. At school he was only average; here he might be more.</p>
<p>Except they would probably never give him a scarf, never let him join, because of who he was. Just like Ludo and Omi and the others would never let him forget he was Dak Drudgebound.</p>
<p>A heavy feeling settled in Ceill’s gut as he and Vlen watched the race, cradling paper cups of tea that warmed them through their gloves. It was exciting, but he no longer felt like cheering. He wasn’t supposed to care about this kind of winning, only the kind that involved sitting at a desk and taking tests. If only he <em>could </em>care about equations as much as he cared about pushing his body to its limits.</p>
<p>Brai ended up placing thirty-seventh out of forty, but they all congratulated him and clapped him on the back. From the corner of his eye, Ceill could see the Fifteens lining up for their race, which ended at the ten-meter wall.</p>
<p>If he didn’t belong here, maybe it didn’t matter what he did. Maybe he could do whatever he wanted. Who was going to punish him?</p>
<p>He bent, tugged off his crampons, and shoved them in his parka pocket. Then he nudged Vlen and whispered, “I’m going. I’m climbing it.”</p>
<p>“What? But you can’t.” Vlen was still gaping at him, mild eyes round with shock, as Ceill turned on his heel and sped away.</p>
<p>The starting gun had just been fired, and he had no trouble losing himself among thirty or so running bodies. The Fifteens had already finished the skiing phase of their competition, so all he had to do was run the obstacle course—the tires, the balance beam, the hurdles, the tunnels, the rope netting.</p>
<p>It was all bigger and steeper than the Thirteens’ course had been, but nothing Ceill couldn’t handle. He leapt the hurdles till his heart galloped and plowed through the icy tunnels, his body light and free with the sheer joy of action. If anyone saw he was in the wrong place, it was too late to stop him. Or maybe they just didn’t care. When he gave himself a swing from the rope netting and landed gracefully a couple meters down the course, the crowd actually cheered.</p>
<p>Maybe he didn’t belong here, but he had run the course fair and square, and he was in the middle of the pack of racers, and here was the wall. It stretched high above his head, glittering and sheer and just off vertical, exactly like in his daydreams.</p>
<p>Ceill knelt and yanked the crampons back over his boots, vision blurring with adrenaline. He stuffed his gloves in his pockets. <em>You can’t stop me. </em>Then he stepped back and took a good run at the wall.</p>
<p>His ice climbing experiences had started when he was eleven, and he and Tilrey went skiing in the Southern Range after a bout of freezing rain. The next day, Ceill begged to climb the icy cliff beside the course, and Tilrey gave in and showed him how to use crampons. Then they tried a small frozen waterfall.</p>
<p>Ceill loved the breakneck speed of skiing, but he loved the slowness of climbing, too. He loved how you had to concentrate on the placement of every finger and toe, the weight on each muscle. He loved climbing trees, but he loved even more how you sank into ice as you climbed it, and how close each step was to catastrophe.</p>
<p>This wall was actually easier than some of the cliffs he’d climbed. He took his time, digging in bare fingertips and crampons, weighing each toehold. Still, he was almost disappointed by how soon he reached the top.</p>
<p>He straddled it and took in the view—the cheering faces, the circle of lights, the darkness on the barrier wall side, the blazing spread of stars. He had no illusions about getting anything but a lecture at the end of the race, but he would conquer this wall. He would show them all that a “Strutter” could beat them at their own games.</p>
<p>Then he remembered that getting down was always harder than getting up.</p>
<p>Clinging to the top, he found a toehold and let go with one hand to reposition it lower. His numbing fingers scrabbled for purchase in the grainy top layer of ice. Just a step or so more, and he could jump the rest of the way down. He found the next toehold and made his fingers into claws, imagining himself glued to the wall. He lowered himself slowly, slowly. He lifted one cramponed foot free and stepped—</p>
<p>His toe met glossy, impregnable ice. Kicking it, he lost his balance. Icy flakes slipped through his fingers, and then he was flailing in midair with just time to remember Tilrey’s warning: <em>If you fall, protect your head!</em></p>
<p>Ceill landed on his butt, the wind knocked out of him. Piled snow had broken his fall, but his breakfast was trying to force its way back up his throat. He lay letting the brilliant winter stars spin around him, waiting for his stomach to settle and for someone to tell him what a stupid, stupid Strutter he was.</p>
<p>Above him, two racers were still making their way down the wall, but the crowd had fallen silent. A hand came down on Ceill’s shoulder.</p>
<p>“Are you all right, lad?” a Skeinsha voice asked. “Can you get up?”</p>
<p>Ceill got to his feet, wincing, and brushed off the snow. His tailbone and wrists were sore, but nothing seemed broken. “I’m okay,” he said. “Didn’t land on my head.”</p>
<p>The hand turned him round. Ceill found himself face to face with a smallish, almost delicate man, grown up but nowhere near as old as his parents, with a short, scraggly beard, thick brows, and wild hair. Nothing about him was especially noteworthy except the eyes—large and brown, intense and full of humor, sparkling in the light.</p>
<p>That was how Ceill recognized him. He’d seen the face of Aleks Snowblind spray-painted on two walls since he’d been here, though he hadn’t said a word about it to Grandma Lisha, who would probably send a crew to paint over the likeness. You could always recognize Aleks by the eyes, Vlen had told him—those brown eyes, strong and weirdly pleading at once.</p>
<p>“It’s you,” he managed to say.</p>
<p>Aleks took Ceill’s arm and led him off the course, the crowd parting silently for them. “Let’s walk,” he said.</p>
<p>Ceill seemed to be under a spell. Aleks released him again, and he followed, the two of them veering into the darkness along the wall, out of sight of the onlookers. Aleks shuffled along, hands in his pockets. Ceill had no trouble keeping up with him.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” he said in a small voice when the weight of the silence was ready to crush him. “I know I wasn’t supposed to be in that race.”</p>
<p>Aleks waved dismissively. “You wanted to challenge yourself. I don’t blame you for that, even if it was reckless.”</p>
<p>A pit opened in Ceill’s gut as he imagined what Dad would say if he’d seen Ceill fall. “Are you going to tell my parents?”</p>
<p>Aleks rounded on him. “Do you want me to?”</p>
<p>Hot blood rushed to Ceill’s cheeks. He rubbed his numbing hands, then remembered his gloves and fished them from his pockets. “<em>Please</em>,” he said. “I mean, please don’t. I know you have to, but . . .”</p>
<p>Aleks tugged something from his parka and held it out. After a moment, Ceill took it. Soft and light—a skein of yarn. It was too dark to see its color.</p>
<p>“That’s for second place in your age group,” Aleks said. “Earned fair and square.”</p>
<p>“Thank you.” Ceill clasped the yarn tight in both hands. “Does this mean, though . . . don’t I have to be one of you?”</p>
<p>“Stitch it to your scarf and wear it in Redda, or don’t. It means whatever you want it to mean.” Aleks started walking again. “You’re assuming there are rules, but I don’t have to do anything, really,” he continued, his boots breaking ground in the snow. “Technically, you know, I’m not supposed to be out here. I’m on eternal probation in Sector Five, thanks to my many misdeeds. But here I am.”</p>
<p>Ceill’s heart was thudding again. Grandma Lisha said Aleks was a wall breaker and should have been sent to detention long ago, but he was nothing like the swaggering outlaw Ceill had imagined. “Is it true,” he asked, “that you’ve been way beyond the barrier wall?”</p>
<p>“Yes.” Aleks’s face was turned from Ceill’s now, his voice amused. “Haven’t <em>you </em>been way beyond the barrier wall, Ceillian Linnett? You were born in Sector Six, from what I’ve heard, but you live in Redda and vacation in the Southern Range with your Strutter parents.”</p>
<p>“Yeah.” Ceill ducked his head. How did Aleks know so much about him—even his name? His mother was well known in Sector Six, but not in Five.</p>
<p>“You ski and climb very well for an Upstart.” There was no negative judgment in the man’s voice.</p>
<p>“Thanks. But I’m not an Upstart. Yet.” Blood stained Ceill’s cheeks again. Dad had drummed into his head that no one could be considered an Upstart or Laborer until Notification. Before he knew it, he was saying something he’d never said to anyone: “Sometimes I’m not even sure I want to be.”</p>
<p>Aleks paused, gazing toward the electrified wall that imprisoned every soul in Thurskein. “You’re not the only one who feels that way,” he said.</p>
<p>What would Aleks know about how Upstarts felt? “It’s not that I have bad test scores,” Ceill said, turning defensive. “I mean, I can be an Upstart. I <em>will</em> be one. It’s just that I like being here.”</p>
<p>Still Aleks looked at the wall. “My father is an Upstart,” he said. “That’s how I know. And yes, in case you’re wondering, I was born right here in ’Skein. Like you. My mother’s a Laborer.”</p>
<p>Ceill had never met a misbirth before. They were the stuff of dirty jokes and cautionary tales. He tried to think of something nice to say, but nothing came.</p>
<p>Aleks didn’t seem to mind. “My father didn’t quite disown me,” he said. “I was merely an embarrassing secret. When I was little, he used to bring me to the Southern Range, so I learned to straddle two worlds, just like you do.”</p>
<p>Ceill had never thought of himself as straddling two worlds the way he’d straddled the top of the ice wall. “It feels more like always being in the wrong place.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, it does, doesn’t it?” Aleks chuckled. “But having a foot in both worlds gives us strength, don’t you think? It helps us see through the lies. Did you know that the Feudals believed misborn children had special powers? Second sight?”</p>
<p>“That’s interesting,” Ceill said politely, following as the young man turned and walked back toward the city.</p>
<p>“Isn’t it?” Aleks glanced back at Ceill, his intense eyes pools of darkness. “I don’t have supernatural abilities myself, but I seem to be very good at convincing people to do what I want them to. And you—well, I suppose we could say you cheated death just now. Have you ever seen flashes of the future?”</p>
<p>Was the man suggesting that Ceill was a misbirth, too? Who on earth would say such a thing? “My parents are <em>both</em> Upstarts,” Ceill blurted, unable to let the misunderstanding stand. “My mom, she’s the Admin here, and my dad—”</p>
<p>“But you’re Supervisor Lindtmerán’s grandson, aren’t you?”</p>
<p>Ceill shook his head frantically. “I call her Grandma, but she’s not my grandma really, she’s Tilrey’s mom.”</p>
<p>“Tilrey.” Aleks stood still, his eyes trapping Ceill’s with the same force that Tilrey’s always did. “Tilrey Bronn, the Supervisor’s son. But I thought he was your father. You’re the spitting image of him.”</p>
<p>Ceill stopped breathing. Something went cold inside him. He took a shaky step away from Aleks.</p>
<p>“I must have misunderstood.” The young man’s eyes were wide with sympathy and regret. “Someone made a careless comment about the resemblance between you two, and I just assumed . . .”</p>
<p>Ceill was trembling all over. <em>The audacity. The insolence. </em>What would Ludo Akeina do?</p>
<p>He drew himself up to his full height, looming over Aleks. “You’ve just insulted my mother. It’s true I was conceived out of wedlock, but not, not . . .”</p>
<p>Was <em>that</em> what Ludo had meant to suggest when he pointed out the resemblance? But it wasn’t true. Just because Ceill looked like Tilrey, just because Dad and Tilrey were as close as two people could be . . . well, it didn’t even make sense.</p>
<p>Anyone who knew Mom and Tilrey knew they were always bickering or giving each other the stink-eye or the silent treatment. They “rubbed each other the wrong way” was how Dad liked to phrase it. It wasn’t possible that they had ever—no. Just no. That would be <em>wrong.</em></p>
<p>“You lie. You’re a lying, shirking outlaw.” Ceill spat the words in Aleks’s calm face, too angry to care that he’d just insulted the Northmen’s adored leader. Then he turned on his heel and ran as fast as he could away from the crowd, back toward the city, where no one would dare repeat that disgusting, despicable lie to him ever again.</p>
<p>When he couldn’t run anymore, he ducked behind an outbuilding and knelt and released a volley of hoarse sobs, holding Aleks’s skein of yarn tight to his chest. He couldn’t seem to make himself toss it away.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This story is almost all drafted, but it's taking me forever to polish and post for some reason. Hopefully the last two chapters will be up faster. And, yes, Ceill will do some apologizing by the end, even if he does have reasons for his bratty behavior. Stay safe, all, and thank you for reading! &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I hope to post the last chapter in the next few days—just need to write the very end first! Thank you so much, as always, for reading.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ceill grabbed the pitcher and dribbled more elderberry syrup on his porridge, with a sidelong glance in Tilrey’s direction. Dad would have told him to leave some for the rest of them. But Dad was sleeping late this morning, Lisha was in the kitchen, and Tilrey was absorbed in Dad’s handheld again.</p>
<p>Over the past four days they’d spent in Thurskein, Tilrey hadn’t scolded Ceill once. He’d even congratulated him on his second-place win in the contest after hearing about it from Lisha, the only person Ceill chose to inform.</p>
<p>Not that he’d told her everything. No one in the family knew about Ceill’s mortifying wipeout on the wall or his private conversation with Aleks Snowblind, and he prayed it stayed that way. Dad and Tilrey would be bad enough, but if his <em>mother </em>found out . . . and anyway, he never wanted to think about that conversation again.</p>
<p>Tilrey looked up from the handheld, straight at Ceill. His hair was neatly combed, his posture straight, his blue eyes calm and cheerful. Ceill felt like a ragged, snot-nosed mess next to him.</p>
<p>“What?” he asked, chilled by the sudden fear that Tilrey had discovered his secrets. He’d probably been talking with Auntie Dal, and she knew absolutely everything that happened in Sector Six.</p>
<p>Tilrey shot another glance at the handheld, then darkened it. “How’d you like to do the snow maze this afternoon? I’m going to have a chat with Dal, but afterward, we could get her and Lourisa and the kids together and have a go at it.”</p>
<p>Ceill exhaled, feeling a little sick with relief. The snow maze at the city center had always been one of his favorite parts of the winter solstice. The layout was different every year, but the story that came with it was the same. Every single winter, as they explored the slippery, blue-lit passages, Dad or Tilrey or Auntie Dal would remind Ceill how his mom had been lost in the maze when her water broke, and Auntie Dal guided her out and got her upstairs to the clinic so Ceill could be born.</p>
<p>When he was little, Ceill loved the story. Now he might puke if he had to hear it one more time. “Snow mazes are for kids,” he said. “I’ll stay here with Dad.”</p>
<p>Tilrey frowned. “You could bring your friend Vlen. Or any other friends you want. It seems like you’ve been spending a lot of time alone indoors.”</p>
<p>“I told you, I pulled a muscle when I ran the race.” Ceill shoveled porridge into his mouth. It tasted <em>too</em> sugary now. “Anyway, I shouldn’t be spending so much time with Skeinsha kids now that I’m only five years from Notification. Don’t you think?”</p>
<p>Tilrey took off his glasses. He was so infuriatingly calm that it was hard to know when he was unhappy, but Ceill had learned to look for the tiny furrow between his brows. “Who’s been telling you that? Your mother?”</p>
<p>Ceill shook his head, realizing too late that he’d moved the conversation onto dangerous ground. After what Aleks had said or implied, he didn’t want to discuss his mom with Tilrey ever again. He didn’t even want to see them in the same room together.</p>
<p>“Or your mother’s friends in Redda?” Tilrey asked. His tone was still friendly, but with the slightest edge. “It would be a bit hypocritical of Vera to tell you to stick with your own kind, given the relationship she has with Mal Sollentaal.”</p>
<p>Ceill knew perfectly well that Mal and his mother slept in the same bedroom when she was in Thurskein. But lots of Admins had special Skeinsha “friends,” and it was none of Tilrey’s business, and at least Mal was always <em>nice</em> to him. “Everybody knows we should stick with our own,” he said. “Everybody at my school.”</p>
<p>And then, before Tilrey could say a single thing more about his mother, Ceill looked up, straight into those blue eyes, and hurled the weapon he’d never meant to use. “Everybody at school knows what you used to do, too. They showed me a photo.”</p>
<p>What reaction was he hoping for? Anger, outrage, sadness, an interrogation, an explanation that would make everything okay? Or maybe, deep down, he was hoping that Tilrey would look blank and ask, <em>Photo? What photo?</em></p>
<p>Tilrey just looked at him. “Those damned pictures,” he said, sounding tired. “I always knew they’d get around. I’m so sorry you had to see that.”</p>
<p>A lump was growing in Ceill’s throat, choking him. In a voice that wasn’t his, he said, “It’s your fault. The things they say to me. How they look down on me. How they <em>laugh </em>at me.”</p>
<p>Tilrey opened his mouth. Then Lisha came in from the kitchen, a steaming kettle in one hand and a platter of chard fritters in the other, and he closed it.</p>
<p>Lisha poured fresh water into the teapot. She might be old, but Ceill could see her sharp eyes sizing up the situation, gauging the frozen silence between them. “Everything okay here? Verdant hells, Ceill, you’ve drowned your porridge in syrup.”</p>
<p>Ceill forced himself to eat another spoonful. “I like it that way.”</p>
<p>Tilrey picked up the handheld. “I better be off.” He scooped a couple of fritters into a napkin and bent to kiss his mother on the cheek. “Dal and I are going to have a catch-up. Tell Gersha I’ll see him at lunch.”</p>
<p>His eyes paused on Ceill, but this time they weren’t calm. They were almost fearful. “We’ll talk soon, lad. Okay?”</p>
<p>Ceill shrugged. He was like Ludo now—an awful, horrible person, but a person other people respected. It was beneath his dignity to argue with Tilrey, beneath his dignity even to answer the question. He stared at a spot on the wall until Tilrey went away.</p>
<p>The instant the door closed, Ceill’s proud expression crumpled. Tears blinded him, and he lowered his face into the napkin. But he could tell Grandma Lisha saw, as she always did.</p>
<p>She put two fritters on a plate and pushed it toward him. Then she sat opposite him, chin on her hands. “What just happened, Ceillsha? Why are you both so upset?”</p>
<p>Ceill wanted to say that Tilrey was <em>never </em>upset, and that was part of the problem. But tears still choked him, so he coughed into his napkin and drank some water. “I can’t say.”</p>
<p>He wasn’t evading the question. He literally couldn’t tell Lisha what he’d just told Tilrey, because if he did, he would be insulting her, too. He would be saying that she was beneath him, that she embarrassed him—and that could never, ever be true.</p>
<p>Grandma Lisha had a calmness that was different from Tilrey’s, less like an icy northern breeze and more like a soft southern one. She nibbled her fritter and washed it down with tea, giving Ceill time to compose himself. Then she said, “I heard a bit. You and Tilrey are both very proud people, you know.”</p>
<p>Ceill took a sip of tea. He’d been trying to keep what Aleks Snowblind had said locked in a tiny box in his mental attic, but sometimes it escaped and rattled around his brain. <em>You’re Supervisor Lindtmerán’s grandson, aren’t you?</em></p>
<p>“Why do I call you Grandma if you’re not my grandmother?” he blurted out.</p>
<p>If the question unsettled her, Lisha gave no sign. “Because you have no grandparents on Gersha’s side,” she said, “and because, in my heart, you are very much my grandson. I was here for your birth, standing beside your mother’s mother. She and I exist on very different Levels, but we put aside our differences when you arrived. You mean so much to us both.”</p>
<p>“I know all that, but . . .”</p>
<p>“Would you rather call me something else, now you’re older? I won’t mind.”</p>
<p>Her tone was so gentle and affectionate that Ceill was ashamed. He was supposed to straddle two worlds, according to Aleks, and instead he was making everybody miserable.</p>
<p>“I can’t help it,” he said, lowering his head and letting the tears flow. “I don’t want to be mean. But at school, the things they say about me and our family—you should hear them. They make me feel dirty.”</p>
<p>Grandma Lisha reached across the table and clasped his hand. “I used to be like your schoolmates,” she said. “I had a strict notion of what was respectable and decent, and I judged everyone against it. Do you know what came of that? Tilrey stopped trusting me—his own mother. He stayed away from me for years because he thought I was ashamed of him.”</p>
<p>Ceill was trembling, but her steady grip gave him strength to speak. “Because he was a kettle boy?”</p>
<p>She nodded.</p>
<p>“<em>Were</em> you ashamed?”</p>
<p>“No.” Lisha sighed. “Yes. Sometimes I was a little, though it pains me to admit it. But I always knew that the life my son led when he first came to Redda was not his choice.” She squeezed Ceill’s hand, hard. “It’s not something Tilrey likes to talk about, and perhaps I’m overstepping my bounds. But I think you should know that.”</p>
<p>Ceill thought again of the sobstream that had taught him everything he knew about kettle boys. The boy from the Upstart family had to prostitute himself if he wanted to stay an Upstart, and he cried the whole time he was doing it. Meanwhile, his Laborer friend was perfectly happy sleeping with a Councillor. <em>There’s no shame in it, you know, for a Drudge</em>, Morten Birun had said. But were Strutters and Drudges <em>that</em> different? Maybe it depended on the person and the reasons. And Lisha was right—Tilrey was proud.</p>
<p>“That’s how Tilrey met my dad, right?” he asked. “He was his . . . his . . .” All the possible words turned his stomach.</p>
<p>Another squeeze of his hand. “It’s not my story to tell. But however they met, we know they love each other.” Lisha rose and went to stand behind him with both hands resting lightly on his shoulders. “You do know that, don’t you, Ceill?”</p>
<p>Ceill nodded, leaning back against her. He didn’t want to think about any of this anymore. He wished he weren’t too old to climb into his grandma’s lap and ask her to read him a story.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry for everything I said to him,” he said.</p>
<p>“And I think he knows that.” With a brisk pat on his shoulder, Lisha released him and began clearing the table. “Sooner or later, you two need to talk, but for now, here’s my plan. You go to your father, wake him up with tea and fritters, and ask if he’d like to go with you to meet Tilrey and the others at the snow maze this afternoon.”</p>
<p>Ceill opened his mouth to say Tilrey would never want to spend time with him again. But Lisha said, “No buts, my lad. If you and Tilrey want to lick your wounds before you get up the courage to talk to each other, that’s fine. But meanwhile, you need the time outdoors, and your dad needs time with you and Tilrey together, and I think you’ll all have fun. Now, finish that disgusting porridge or tell me if I need to compost it.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>On his way out of the apartment, carrying the tray of tea and fritters carefully balanced in the crook of one arm, Ceill nearly ran into Mal Sollentaal.</p>
<p>“Hey, young Fir.” Lisha’s assistant flashed his usual blinding smile. “Happy birthday.”</p>
<p>“Thanks.” Ceill smiled back. “Happy solstice.”</p>
<p>“Same to you. Maybe I’ll see you in the Southern Range tomorrow or the next day?”</p>
<p>“Sure.” Ceill had never given much thought to what Tilrey called Mal’s “relationship” with his mother. After all, they didn’t live together the way Tilrey and Gersha did. Mal stayed in Thurskein, except for the holidays when he came to the Southern Range and stayed with Mom and Grandma Bertine. In his capacity as an expert on Sector Six customs, music, graffiti, and slang, he had more than once helped Ceill feel less lost in ’Skein. And he made Mom laugh.</p>
<p>Mal was usually respectful, too. Ludo Akeina would approve of that, though Ceill didn’t like to consider what Ludo might think of his mother and Mal sharing a bed. Especially if Ludo already thought Mom and Tilrey—no, he was not going to think about that.</p>
<p>Except, Mal <em>did </em>look a lot like Tilrey, only younger. That was hard to deny.</p>
<p>“Congrats on second place in the fitness contest,” Mal said, holding the door for Ceill. “I heard you got to meet Aleks Snowblind himself.”</p>
<p>Ceill’s face burned, though he should have expected this; Mal made it his business to know everything. “It just sort of happened,” he said. “Are you going to tell my mom?”</p>
<p>“Why would I?”</p>
<p>Mal looked genuinely confused, but Ceill didn’t trust that. He gripped the tray tight to stop his trembling. “I know about the Northmen. Tilrey told me to stay away from them. All we did was talk, though.”</p>
<p>“I imagine you’d make a good recruit for them. A real prize. But Aleks isn’t much for strategy, and if he wanted to talk to you, he probably just wanted to talk. What did he say?”</p>
<p>Ceill couldn’t miss the sudden intentness—Mal was like Tilrey in that way, too, always spying on people and wanting to know their secrets. He forced himself to breathe. <em>Don’t lie. Just don’t tell the whole truth. </em>“Aleks knows my parents are Upstarts. He said his dad is one, too. Is that true?”</p>
<p>Where Ceill’s parents might have hemmed and hawed over the question, Mal just nodded. “That’s the main reason Aleks Thulver—yeah, that’s his real name—isn’t in detention right now, or in an Int/Sec cell in Redda. His high-named Strutter father protects him. Pretty sweet deal, right?”</p>
<p>Mal spoke conspiratorially, as if he were a buddy like Vlen and not a grown-up. But Ceill knew perfectly well that he worked for Lisha enforcing the laws of the Sector. “Don’t you think Aleks <em>should</em> be in detention?” he asked. “For wall breaking?”</p>
<p>“Technically, yes. Off the record, I can’t honestly say I care about the sanctity of our barrier wall.” A wink. “You won’t tell your mom I said that, now will you?”</p>
<p>Ceill shook his head, but he felt itchy all over. Mal wanted something from him.</p>
<p>He got a better idea what when Mal leaned closer and said, “Let me know if Aleks talks to you again. What he says.”</p>
<p>“Why?” Ceill held the tray wedged against his chest. “Are you worried about me getting ‘sucked in’?”</p>
<p>“Are the Northmen sucking you in, young Fir?” Mal gazed at Ceill in stern silence for a moment, then cracked up. “Look, kid, you’re gonna be an Upstart. No one’s worried about you heeding Aleks’s siren song. I’m asking because I like to know what’s going on in my sector.”</p>
<p><em>Tilrey seemed worried about that. </em>But Ceill wouldn’t bring up Tilrey right now. “You want me to be a spy for you?”</p>
<p>Another wink. “You up to it?”</p>
<p>“I’ll let you know if Aleks and me talk again,” Ceill said, adding silently, <em>If I feel like it.</em></p>
<p>***</p>
<p>The snow maze <em>was</em> almost fun. Ceill spent most of his time with Lourisa’s two youngest children, patiently showing them how to solve the maze and warning them away from icy patches. The grown-ups tagged along talking about grown-up things. No one retold the story of his birth, and for that he was grateful. Even the little kids had heard it a thousand times.</p>
<p>They rewarded themselves for solving the maze with salt biscuits and heart-of-pine floss and a turn on the dance floor under the colored lights. Dal grabbed Ceill’s hand and spun him around, teaching him steps she’d learned when she was younger, and though he knew he should be incredibly embarrassed, he wasn’t. No one in the crowd was staring or frowning at him, wondering what he was doing there. Everyone was clapping along.</p>
<p>When they headed back, Ceill found himself walking beside Tilrey. Gersha had stopped to help Lourisa’s youngest girl retrieve her floss cone, which had fallen in the snow.</p>
<p>“Did you have fun?” Tilrey still sounded a little breathless, because Dal had insisted on dancing with him, too, and then mocked him for having “slow feet.” Then Tilrey had insisted on dancing with Dad, and Dad had danced a little, protesting all the while that he absolutely couldn’t keep a beat, while they all laughed and clapped and encouraged him.</p>
<p>“Yeah, I had fun.” Ceill swallowed and thought of Grandma Lisha’s calm voice and steady hands. “I’m sorry. For everything I said before.”</p>
<p>Tilrey gave Ceill the briefest pat on the shoulder. “You have a good heart, Ceill,” he said. “I do hope you’ll see Vlen later. He’ll want to say goodbye.”</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I kept adding bits to this story, but here it is, the drama-full conclusion! :)</p>
<p>Just checked, and I can't believe I've only been posting this stuff for slightly over two years. Sharing the world of Oslov has added something good to my life and helped with everyday stress. Sending enormous thanks to everybody who has ever read, kudo'ed, and/or commented. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Once you plant a seed in a fertile brain, it can never be unplanted. </em>Whyberg said that. It was one of dozens of quotes that Ceill had memorized for his exams last term.</p>
<p>The Founder was talking about the idea of meritocracy, which had come to him in a daydream when he was a child living under the unfair and arbitrary aristocracy inherited from the Feudals. The seed that had been planted in Ceill’s mind had been planted by Aleks Snowblind, but apparently his brain was just as fertile as Whyberg’s, because it kept growing.</p>
<p>No matter how many times he tried to uproot the notion that he was a misbirth, it resprouted and shot upward. In bed in the villa, their first night in the Southern Range, Ceill tossed and turned, sleepless. He needed to talk to someone about this. He needed someone to tell him positively it wasn’t true.</p>
<p>But who? Mom would be horrified and possibly even cry. Dad would be upset, too, with that awful look of worry in his eyes. Ceill and Tilrey were on speaking terms again, being carefully nice to each other, but no way Ceill was asking Tilrey about this.</p>
<p>Uncle Valgund was a possibility, because nothing ever seemed to shock him. (He was even growing a beard again, to Mom’s alarm.) But Valgund spent most of his days deep in the woods collecting specimens, so Ceill was rarely alone with him.</p>
<p>That left Grandma Bertine. When she tapped on the window of their villa the next morning, a sly grin on her usually dignified face, Ceill’s head spun.</p>
<p>Valgund was already out in the woods, and Dad and Tilrey were sleeping late, so Ceill ran into the coldroom to open up. This grandmother wasn’t a hugger, but she clasped his hands in a way that made him feel grown-up. “Anyone else awake yet?”</p>
<p>“Only Uncle, and he left. I just finished breakfast.”</p>
<p>“Good! I was wondering if you’d like to walk in the woods, just the two of us.”</p>
<p>It was a perfectly normal suggestion, but Ceill gulped as she angled her head, examining him. Grandma Bertine was a little scarier than Grandma Lisha—maybe because of her intelligence work in the Council, or maybe it was just part of being a Linnett. Though she never lectured Ceill the way his mom did, he tended to go shy in her presence, feeling like she knew all his secrets.</p>
<p>But that was the point, wasn’t it? To share his secret with someone before it made him explode.</p>
<p>Giddy and terrified at once, he pulled on his outergear and followed his grandmother out of the villa and up the cross-country trail. He’d been this way a million times with her or Dad and Tilrey, exploring the ruined Feudal village, but everything was different now.</p>
<p>“You’re limping a little, Ceillsha,” his grandmother said. “Ski accident?”</p>
<p>Ceill had told everybody else he’d twisted his ankle running the Thirteens obstacle course. But if he started the conversation with one true confession, it might be easier to make a second one. “I climbed an ice wall in ’Skein,” he said. “I wasn’t supposed to, because it was for older kids, but I knew I could do it, and I could.”</p>
<p>A lone streak of gray daylight that would soon vanish from the horizon cast feeble light on his grandmother’s face. “And then you took a fall.”</p>
<p>There was no judgment in her voice, and no reassurance, either. She was nothing like his mother, who was always reminding Ceill how much she loved him and how special he was. But sometimes it was easier not to feel like someone needed you to be special.</p>
<p>Ceill nodded. “I got to the top first,” he said, unable to resist a pang of pride. “Are you mad at me?”</p>
<p>“I would have been very upset if you’d hurt yourself badly. But not at you. Do your parents know?”</p>
<p>Ceill shook his head. “I told them it happened another way.”</p>
<p>He was surprised when his grandma shot him the smile of a young girl. “Our secret, then. Do you think you’ll be climbing another ice wall any time soon?”</p>
<p>“There aren’t any in Redda, and I’m going to be stuck there <em>forever</em>. When we go back, Mom says, I have to buckle down and prep for the Fourteens exams.”</p>
<p>They’d reached the edge of the forest, a solid black mass against the gray dusk. Grandmother took out her headlamp and put it on, and Ceill imitated her. “That sounds like a gloomy outlook,” she said. “But surely you won’t be studying all day and all night.”</p>
<p>“I will, though.” Suddenly Ceill knew how to broach the subject that tormented him. “My quant scores suck, even with Dad’s tutoring,” he said. “I guess Mom probably told you. My brain just hates numbers.”</p>
<p>Grandmother sighed sympathetically. “So does mine. My mother was a programmer, and it frustrated her to no end that I took after my father in my preference for ‘fluffy’ subjects. I could easily memorize a string of irregular verb forms, but the digits of pi tumbled right out of my head.” She let Ceill take the lead along the forest path, their headlamps illuminating fir boughs laden with snow. “You probably inherited that gene.”</p>
<p>Ceill had noticed that high Upstarts sometimes joked ruefully about not being <em>technev</em>, or good with numbers, but Laborers never joked about that. It was too sensitive a subject for them.</p>
<p>“It’s not that! You <em>know </em>it’s not that,” he added in a lower voice, trudging ahead so she couldn’t see his face. “My dad—Gersha—no one’s more <em>technev </em>than he is, so I should have inherited it. But I’m a complete idiot.”</p>
<p>“Green hells, my lad, we all have our talents, and yours is simply for words.”</p>
<p><em>Words. </em>Tilrey could speak Harbourer like a native; he was always advising Dad on his vocabulary and pronunciation. They were both readers, but Tilrey was the one who recited passages of Republic law code word for word. Ceill memorized words easily, too. And he loved the outdoors as much as Tilrey did.</p>
<p>Not that that proved anything at all. The most damning evidence was on his face. “I don’t <em>look </em>like Dad,” he said, frustrated by her refusal to <em>see</em>. “Everybody notices it. I’m dumb like a Drudge, I’m only good at fluffy subjects, and I look, I look . . .”</p>
<p>Grandmother’s steps crunched to a stop, so Ceill had to turn to face her. Darkness had closed around them, broken only by the snow on the boughs, which shone in the light of their headlamps like the eyes of wild animals about to spring. Ceill wished they <em>were</em> surrounded by predators as his grandmother asked, “What are you saying, Ceill? You seem quite upset.”</p>
<p>The lump in Ceill’s throat was back, choking him. But he couldn’t wuss out now. “I look like <em>him. </em>Tilrey. Everybody notices we look alike.”</p>
<p>He held his breath, shivering, waiting for her to tell him fondly that he was being a silly goose.</p>
<p>He needed her to say that of course he <em>actually</em> looked like his dad, even if it was hard to see. Maybe around the nose. Of course he was a Gádden, with his shyness and his deep-rooted sense of right and wrong and his willingness to spend hours practicing things till he got them right. And everything he didn’t get from Gersha or Vera—his daredevil side, for instance—well, that was his alone.</p>
<p>The headlamp gave his grandmother’s face new crags and shadows, making her expression hard to read. “Inheritance,” she said, “is a tricky thing, Ceill. My father was a dark man, a twisted man who betrayed the Republic and valued his appetites above all else. I see traces of that selfishness in myself, but I hope I’ve lived a fairly ethical life. He made his own choices, and he was partly shaped by his circumstances, as I was by mine.”</p>
<p>Ceill released his breath, a cloud of vapor dissipating in the frosty air. He was shaking so hard he could barely see straight. Why didn’t she just tell him it wasn’t true?</p>
<p>“And you are shaped by your circumstances,” his grandmother continued calmly. “Which include, as far as I can see, having three parents who adore you. Which two are your biological parents seems a mere footnote.”</p>
<p>This time, Ceill gave the anger free rein. He stamped his foot, hard. “It’s not a footnote, and you know it! You’re a Linnett! It matters more than anything. If I’m not Dad’s son . . .”</p>
<p>He couldn’t say the rest. The adrenaline gave way to cold terror, leaving his body limp as a washrag. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to get home.</p>
<p>Grandmother draped an arm around Ceill and steered him to face the mouth of the path. “My boy, you’re shaking like you’re the one who’s over seventy. Let’s go back and warm up. Your mother tells me she wants to have a chat with you.”</p>
<p>Ceill let himself be led. The warmth of her guiding arm was reassuring, even if he wished he could disappear into the dark woods and never be seen again. “About <em>this</em>?” was all he managed to say.</p>
<p>His grandmother didn’t deny it. “She asked me to take you aside while she made a few arrangements.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>“We all three need to be there,” Gersha said, staring into the glowing red of the gas stove. “We all need to tell him, because this is on all of us. If we’d just told him earlier, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”</p>
<p>How many times had they had this conversation over the past thirteen years? Always playing the same roles—Vera and Gersha adamant on opposite sides, and Tilrey pretending to be a neutral moderator until he finally revealed his true colors and sided with Vera. The two of them telling Gersha that he “wasn’t being realistic.”</p>
<p>But he’d told them they couldn’t wait forever, and he’d been right.</p>
<p>Vera stalked between the two sofas, arms crossed, looking as tense as Gersha felt. “We did the right thing. He was too young to keep secrets. School is hard enough for him now—imagine how hard it would have been if he’d known.”</p>
<p>“It’s going to keep on being hard, no matter what.” Tilrey sat on the second sofa facing Gersha’s, his feet drawn up and bare. He’d barely spoken so far. “Believe me, I wish he never had to know. But people are starting to notice the resemblance. He needs to know how to respond.”</p>
<p>“I suppose,” Vera said sulkily.</p>
<p>“<em>I </em>don’t wish he never had to know!” Gersha couldn’t control his volume. Much as he loved Tilrey, he hated when he pretended his opinion or his contribution didn’t matter. “Ceill’s your child. <em>Our </em>child. He needs to know that. I don’t want him ever pulling rank on you. I don’t want him ever disowning you. I don’t <em>want </em>him to be another little snot-nosed, arrogant, oblivious Linnett.” He rounded on his wife. “Don’t you agree?”</p>
<p>Vera sighed. She wore her hair long and braided now, because her Skeinsha boyfriend liked it that way, but a few coppery curls always escaped and wafted around her face. “Are you saying you don’t want Ceill to be like me?”</p>
<p>“No! I don’t want him to be like <em>me.</em>” Gersha turned to Tilrey. “You remember how I was when we first met? I couldn’t see an inch beyond my high-named prejudices.”</p>
<p>“You should give yourself more credit,” Tilrey said softly.</p>
<p>Vera ignored them. “Ceill would be happier if he could stay oblivious,” she said, “but that’s not the point. As Tilrey said, we don’t have a choice. He’s on the verge of figuring it out for himself. And I should be the one to tell him.”</p>
<p>Anger made Gersha’s cheeks blaze. “Why you? We raised him, too.”</p>
<p>“<em>You </em>did, Gersha,” Tilrey said.</p>
<p>“Not alone!”</p>
<p>Vera was used to talking over and through their marital disagreements. “He’ll feel less ambushed if it’s just one of us. And it should be me because . . . well, it was my mistake, or whatever you want to call it.” She gazed into the stove, pointedly avoiding their eyes. “I’m the most responsible. If he needs to blame someone, it should be me.”</p>
<p>“He won’t blame you,” Tilrey said in that same resigned undertone.</p>
<p>“He’d better not blame you, either!” Gersha jumped to his feet, crossed the carpet, and glared down at his husband. “I hate when you get all stoic and submissive, and you know it. Just stop it, love. You <em>will </em>be part of your son’s life, and you <em>won’t </em>be a martyr and step aside. If he’s ever ashamed of you—which I refuse to believe—then he’ll just have to learn not to be. Isn’t that what we’re fighting for?”</p>
<p>“I wish it were that easy.” Tilrey cocked his head, reminding Gersha he needed to watch his words around Vera. She was fully behind their reform efforts in the Council, but she didn’t yet know they were full-blown Dissidents. While Mal Sollentaal was quietly doing his best to rekindle the subversive sympathies that Vera had shown at University, it might be years before they dared make her an ally.</p>
<p>“Sooner or later, I’ll turn her like Tilrey turned you,” Mal had boasted once to Gersha. But Gersha knew from his own experience that the beliefs of high-named Upstarts were tough to uproot, and the stakes were high. And Mal seemed really to care about Vera, which complicated everything.</p>
<p>“No one disagrees with you, Gersha,” Vera said. “But that’s not the point. All I want is to talk to our son first, so he doesn’t feel overwhelmed. After that, you can say your piece. Make sense?”</p>
<p>Gersha said, “I still think it should be the three of us.”</p>
<p>They both looked at Tilrey, who looked at the fire. Finally he said, “Sorry, love. But I think it’ll be easier on Ceill this way. Let’s go have tea with Albertine and give them an hour to themselves.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>When Ceill arrived back at Dad’s villa, he found his mother alone, warming herself at the fire with a fresh pot of tea. “You look frozen, sweetheart,” she said, filling a tumbler for him.</p>
<p>“Where’s Dad?” Ceill sat on the sofa opposite her. His grandmother had run back off to her own villa, saying she was expecting visitors.</p>
<p>“He and Tilrey went to have tea with your grandmother.”</p>
<p>So they were the visitors. “And Mal?” He was probably at Grandmother’s villa, too, but Ceill wanted to be sure he wasn’t here for . . . whatever was going to happen now.</p>
<p>“Mal’s over there, too. Valgund’s still out gathering specimens.” Mom patted the sofa beside her. “Come sit by me, Ceillsha.”</p>
<p>Ceill obeyed. Ever since his grandmother had quietly confirmed his worst fears, his body had been going through its routines automatically while his brain whirled in anguished, helpless circles.</p>
<p>He didn’t want to hear what his mother was going to say. He wanted to stop time right here, with her a perfect, beautiful person who could do no wrong. But he didn’t have supernatural powers, misborn or not.</p>
<p>“Ceill.” She brushed a curl out of her eyes. “Your father tells me that your school friends have been saying or insinuating things about your home life. Disagreeable things.”</p>
<p><em>Just say it. No, don’t say it. It’s too awful. </em>“Ludo Akeina did, but he’s not my friend.”</p>
<p>His mother nodded. “They’ve been asking about your relationship with Tilrey. Your physical resemblance to him.”</p>
<p>Ceill was riding a lift, and the cable had snapped, sending him rocketing thirty floors in seconds. His stomach heaved; the world was a sick blur.</p>
<p>“Why isn’t he here?” he blurted out. Was Tilrey scared to face him?</p>
<p>His mother’s hands clasped his own, forming a still point. The runaway lift halted, suspended in midair. “I asked Tilrey to leave,” she said. “Gersha too. I wanted us to talk alone for a bit.”</p>
<p>What could she possibly say that would make anything better? Ceill blinked hard, dizzy but determined not to cry.</p>
<p>His mother held him lightly, stroking his knuckles with her thumbs, coaxing him back into his body. “You were born out of love. That’s something I want you to know.”</p>
<p><em>You and Tilrey don’t even like each other. </em>But Ceill couldn’t say it. He just looked into the sweet face that had bent over him countless times throughout his childhood and told him things would be all right. He always believed her. How could she betray him so terribly? How <em>could </em>she?</p>
<p>“I’m not sure you’re old enough to understand this,” his mother said. “But sometimes love is two-sided, and sometimes it’s one-sided.”</p>
<p>Ceill set his jaw. He didn’t want to hear her talk about loving anybody but him, though he supposed she must love Mal in that way he’d never experienced but could almost imagine. Maybe it was like how he felt about the ice wall, dreaming of it day and night. <em>You’ll freeze of your burning love, </em>the proverb went.</p>
<p>“When I was a few years older than you, I met a boy who I thought was the most extraordinary boy in the whole world, and I fell in love. But it was one-sided. He didn’t feel the same about me.”</p>
<p>Ceill’s fingers squeezed hers tight. Was she talking about Tilrey? “He should have,” he muttered. <em>He was nothing. And you? You’re everything.</em></p>
<p>“Love doesn’t need reasons,” his mother said. “Neither does lack of love. I’m telling you this to explain why I did something stupid and reckless. I threw myself at the one I loved.” Her voice faltered. “I ruined my marriage. I was unhappy, and I thought love would fix that. Instead I ended up making everybody else unhappy, too.”</p>
<p>Ceill hoped he never would be in love with anything but an ice wall. “You’re not a bad person,” he said, the injustice of it burning his cheeks. Whatever had happened, it wasn’t her fault or Dad’s. He was sure of that.</p>
<p>“Good people can cause unhappiness, too, Ceill.” She squeezed his hands back. “What you need to understand is that something wonderful came of that unhappiness in the end. Something that made it all worthwhile. And that was you.” She looked straight into his eyes. “The instant I saw your face, I knew everything would be all right. And it is. No matter whose genetic material you carry, no matter whose name is on your paperwork, you belong to all three of us.”</p>
<p>She raised Ceill’s hands and pressed them to her lips, her eyes gleaming with reflected gas light. “You always have belonged to us, and you always will. And you are our brilliant, wonderful boy, and you will keep shining. You have to believe that.”</p>
<p>A tear rolled down Ceill’s cheek. He wrenched a hand away and wiped his eyes, not wanting her to see.</p>
<p>“You always say I’m special,” he said shakily. “But how <em>can</em> you? How can you, when you know I’m really . . .?” <em>His. </em>He couldn’t get the word out.</p>
<p>His mother’s gaze turned fierce. “Why should that make a difference?”</p>
<p>“Everybody knows Laborers aren’t—”</p>
<p>“Do you believe what your schoolmates say? Do you believe it more than the evidence of your own eyes and ears?”</p>
<p><em>Yes. No. </em>All Ceill knew for sure was that people like Ludo Akeina would never see any worth in people like Tilrey Bronn (<em>my father</em>). If he was part of Tilrey, then he was worthless, too, whatever people like Aleks Snowblind thought.</p>
<p>He said in a strangled voice, “If he’s nothing, I’m nothing.”</p>
<p>Then he was in his mother’s arms—not sobbing, because he wasn’t a baby, but breathing hard and trying not to sob while tears streamed down his cheeks. And she was stroking his hair and saying, “You’re not nothing. You’re my boy. You’re all I ever wanted. You’re just right. You’re perfect.”</p>
<p>They stayed that way for a while, until Ceill was calm enough to take a careful sip of tea. His brain still felt like the world outside—a dark, freezing hole. But his body felt soothed. “What about my tests?” he asked in a small, scratchy voice. “What if I keep bombing them?”</p>
<p>“You’ll just keep studying hard.” His mother brushed hair off his forehead. “Has Tilrey ever told you how well he did on his E-Squareds?”</p>
<p>Dad had told Ceill that story a thousand times, trying to prove to him that Laborers could be as smart as Upstarts. But Ceill knew Tilrey’s scores weren’t <em>that </em>amazing, at least by Redda standards. “He did well for a Drudge. He didn’t do well enough to get Raised.”</p>
<p>“No. But there were other reasons for that. And you should know, Ceill, that Laborer kids rarely get Raised unless they score twice or three times as high as their Upstart peers.” His mother’s wet eyes fixed on him. “The system isn’t fair—Tilrey and your dad have helped me see that. Luckily, though, it’s an unfair system that’s rigged in your favor.”</p>
<p>Ceill didn’t like the sound of that, but he didn’t feel like complaining. Not now. “I’ll work and work,” he said. “I’ll get to ninetieth percentile. You’ll see.”</p>
<p>“I have no doubt.” His mother hugged him again. “But even if you don’t, I won’t love you any less. <em>We </em>won’t love you any less. I don’t want you to grow up the way Gersha and I did, hounded by the fear that you aren’t perfect.”</p>
<p><em>I’m so far from perfect. </em>Ceill knew he would disappoint her, but at least he had the memory of the ice wall. He had Aleks’s secret gift, the skein of yarn.</p>
<p>And Aleks had been right all along.</p>
<p>His mother drew back and held him at arm’s length. “Now, will you promise me something?”</p>
<p>Ceill nodded reflexively. <em>Anything.</em></p>
<p>“I know you’re upset, but I want you to promise you won’t take it out on Tilrey.”</p>
<p>Ceill’s cheeks burned. Had Tilrey told her about the cruel things Ceill had already said? Hadn’t he apologized?</p>
<p>“Everybody’s going to know about me,” he said at last. “Everybody <em>does </em>know.” Didn’t she understand? He didn’t want people to look at him and see all the things Tilrey had done in his life, whether Tilrey had wanted to do them or not.</p>
<p>“They may or may not know.” His mom gave his shoulders a squeeze. “The important thing is, they won’t be able to hurt you with it. You are who you are, and Gersha will always be your dad in every way that matters. Now, will you promise?”</p>
<p>The promise seemed frustratingly vague to Ceill. Was he saying he would never criticize Tilrey, or never get mad at Tilrey again? What if Tilrey criticized <em>him</em>? What if he kept bossing Ceill around? What if he tried to take Gersha’s place in Ceill’s life?</p>
<p>Ceill loved Tilrey—of course he did, Ludo Akeina or not. But Tilrey was mysterious in ways his dad wasn’t. When they were outdoors, skiing or climbing together, everything was fine. When they were indoors, Tilrey kept so much hidden that sometimes Ceill wasn’t sure he trusted him.</p>
<p>But his mother was looking at him with tears in her eyes. So he said, “Of course. I promise.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Gersha returned to their villa first. He wanted Tilrey to come with him, but Tilrey said, “I’ll stay here for the afternoon. Mal and I should chat about what’s happening in Thurskein, and anyway, Vera’s right. We don’t want to overwhelm the poor kid.”</p>
<p>Arriving home, Gersha found Vera already putting on her outergear. “It’s okay,” she said and gave him a quick hug. “He’s adjusting, and I think he wants to see you.”</p>
<p>Ceill was in the living room, in the windowseat with his long legs drawn up and a tumbler of cold tea beside him. Turning from the dark outdoors at Gersha’s entry, the boy said, “Hey.” His voice was sluggish and hoarse as if he’d been crying.</p>
<p>“Hey.” Gersha gathered the tea things, a little choked up himself. Ceill didn’t seem angry, though, and he took strength from that. “Shall I make a fresh pot?”</p>
<p>Ceill nodded.</p>
<p>Ten minutes later, when Gersha had placed the steaming pot and tumblers and some cookies on the table, Ceill joined him without being asked. They knelt on opposite sides, drinking and chewing in silence until Gersha said, “Your grandmother says to expect a clear day tomorrow. But cold.”</p>
<p>Ceill nodded again. The agonizing silence continued. Gersha was trying desperately to think of something neutral to discuss that wasn’t the weather when his handheld buzzed—an automated message about the next Council session. As he made a mental note to pass it to Tilrey, Ceill asked, “Were you mad?”</p>
<p>“Mad about what?” Gersha pushed the device away, keeping his voice low and even. He ached to hug his son, but a lifetime of training in decorum restrained him, together with the instinctual sense that Ceill wasn’t ready.</p>
<p>“When you found out. About them.” Ceill didn’t meet his eyes. “Weren’t you mad that he was with her, even if it was just one time?”</p>
<p>Gersha shook his head firmly. He tried to remember the moment so he could be scrupulously honest, but it was lost in all the other emotions of their reconciliation and marriage ceremony and return from Harbour. And he certainly wasn’t going to say, “It was more than one time, actually, but I knew he was sleeping with your mother only to get political help from her then-husband, so it was all right.” The full truth sounded so cold-blooded now.</p>
<p>“I knew Tilrey loved me,” he said, blinking the haze out of his eyes. “And he knew I knew. There was never any question.” It was the True Hearth that had been his rival for Tilrey’s heart, but Ceill wasn’t ready to know that, either.</p>
<p>There was something forbiddingly adult about Ceill’s neutral expression. “Did you hate Mom, though?” he asked.</p>
<p>Gersha shook his head even more strenuously. “I barely knew her until we were married. Since then—well, I think we’ve become friends. We have plenty in common, at least as far as background goes.”</p>
<p><em>And being in love with Tilrey. </em>Maybe Gersha had felt a pang of dislike now and then when Vera gazed at his husband with those sad, melting eyes, but he hadn’t caught her doing that for at least a decade. She seemed to have found a mature love in Mal, or at least a less obsessive and more mutual one, and he was happy for her.</p>
<p>Ceill pursued his line of inquiry. “So, you and Mom never . . .? I mean, you weren’t . . .?”</p>
<p>“No!” It felt surprisingly good to admit it; the words came with a burst of pent-up laughter. “Your mom and I never fancied each other that way; I think you’ve already guessed that. We’re friends, Ceill. We respect each other immensely.”</p>
<p>Again Ceill nodded, still with that guarded look. At last, he met Gersha’s eyes. “Why did you want me? If you knew I wasn’t yours?”</p>
<p><em>How can you even suggest I wouldn’t want you? </em>But even as Gersha’s throat closed with indignation, he knew the question had to be asked and answered. Ceill had to hear reaffirmed what he already knew.</p>
<p>“From the first moment I saw you, you <em>were </em>mine,” he said. “Tilrey brought you to me in our suite, carrying you in his arms, and I saw your eyes were his eyes, and I . . .”</p>
<p>No more words would come; no more words mattered. He shook his head, tears running down his cheeks, and held out his arms.</p>
<p>For a too-long moment, Gersha sat there on his haunches, gazing at the blurred image of his son and knowing he looked a fool and not caring. At last he got to his feet, knees cracking. Ceill rose too, with the ease of youth, and crossed the distance and threw himself into his dad’s arms.</p>
<p>They held each other tight for a bit without speaking. As they came apart, Gersha said, “I think I just realized you’re taller than me.”</p>
<p>They laughed, both a little shaky. Ceill said, “I can’t be,” and Gersha said, “I think you are. Let’s measure. Stand against the wall, right here.”</p>
<p>Ceill usually protested when Gersha tried to make him into a “science experiment,” but now he allowed himself to be measured. “Do you mind that I’m not like you?” he asked in a low voice as Gersha examined the marks he’d taped on the wall.</p>
<p>The swell of feeling prevented Gersha from speaking at first. He was glad the room was lit only by firelight, so Ceill couldn’t see quite how weepy he was. “I think,” he said at last, “that you’re more like me than you know.”</p>
<p>“No, I do know. I want to be like you.” The boy’s words came in gulps. “You always tell me things, even when it’s bad. I don’t want to be like Tilrey, hiding everything.”</p>
<p>“Tilrey doesn’t—” But Gersha checked his impulse to rush to his husband’s defense. Tilrey and Ceill would need to work certain things out for themselves. “Tilrey has his reasons for being more private than most people,” he said, gentle. “If he keeps things from you, it’s because he wants the best for you. I hope you’ll give him time to show you who he is—and that he’ll give you time, too.”</p>
<p>Then he clapped his son on the shoulder. “Congratulations. You’ve outgrown your poor old dad.”</p>
<p>Ceill shot him a quick, nervous glance as if to ask, <em>Can I still call you that? </em>Gersha answered with his eyes<em>. </em>He said aloud, “I hope you don’t lord those extra centimeters over me, especially considering you’re still growing.”</p>
<p>Ceill’s grin was unforced this time. “I’ll try not to.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Ceill, Dad, and Uncle Valgund had a quiet dinner without Tilrey, who had stayed at Grandma Bertine’s house to discuss Council business with her—so Dad said, anyway. Going by his own feelings, Ceill wondered if maybe Tilrey just wasn’t ready to see him yet.</p>
<p>Ceill could certainly use more time to process. His body and mind felt as sluggish as if he’d skied miles uphill through a blizzard, though pretty much all he’d done that day was sit around and talk. His eyelids were leaden from all the crying he tried to tell himself he hadn’t done. He went upstairs directly after dinner, lay down for a nap, and woke to find it was seven in the morning.</p>
<p>Pulling on his clothes in the dark, Ceill suddenly knew what he needed to clear the sticky, cobwebby feeling out of his head: a turn on the cross-country trail before breakfast. It was nearly minus thirty-five, so he’d go only to the edge of the woods, but that would be enough to get his blood pumping and his thoughts in order.</p>
<p>No signs of life in the villa; Dad and Tilrey must be sleeping late again. He put on his warmest outergear in the coldroom, strapped on his headlamp, and grabbed skis and poles. When he stepped through the seal, the cold crashed into him like a wave. It was a clear day, though, just as Grandma and Dad had forecast; the still-black sky was thick with stars. Swiftly and efficiently, Ceill strapped on his skis and poled off along the trail, zipping among the stray pines.</p>
<p>When he saw another skier paused beside the trail, he thought nothing of it—until a glide brought him close enough to recognize the height and shoulder span.</p>
<p><em>Him. </em>Of course. Tilrey also liked pre-dawn exercise in the bracing cold—one more thing they had in common.</p>
<p>Ceill slowed his stroking, trying to think of an excuse to turn tail that wouldn’t make him look like a coward. But when Tilrey beckoned, as if he’d been waiting for Ceill all along, Ceill had no choice but to glide abreast of him and snowplow to a stop.</p>
<p>“What—” he began, then broke off as Tilrey put a heavily gloved finger to his lips.</p>
<p>The other hand pointed across the dully gleaming snowfield to a place where furrows marred the untouched surface. “Keep the headlamp away,” Tilrey said in a low voice. “It’ll scare them off.”</p>
<p><em>Them</em>? Then something and a second something moved in the furrows, throwing up a haze of snow, and Ceill understood.</p>
<p>Two fuzzy arctic fox clubs were chasing each other in circles, white on white. When he squinted, he could make out two more cavorting cubs and an adult fox off to one side, positioned to keep an eye on her brood. Now and then she yipped a warning, and the cubs galloped back to her—only to resume their play, wrestling and nipping at each other’s tails and rumps.</p>
<p>Ceill had seen foxes in the wild before, but never this close. He stood stock still, watching as they tumbled over each other, panting and yipping with the sheer joy of movement. Their lives in the taiga would be harsh and short, focused on survival, yet they still had time for play. If only people in Redda understood as much about life as foxes did.</p>
<p>He would remember this moment always, he decided. If he ever saw Aleks Snowblind again, maybe he’d tell him.</p>
<p>Realizing his fingers were going numb, he began shaking them frantically. Tilrey took Ceill’s hands and rubbed them between his until the blood rushed back. “That better?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.” Ceill lowered his head. He’d forgotten himself, forgotten he was supposed to be awkward with Tilrey, accepting his unusual family in the easy way he had as a kid<em>.</em></p>
<p>He would never, ever call Tilrey “Dad,” he’d already decided. If Tilrey wanted the title, he should have said so about thirteen years earlier; it was spoken for.</p>
<p>But he couldn’t bring himself to be angry, not after the foxes, and Tilrey didn’t look angry, either. Leaning back on his poles with an open grin, he said, “That vixen is probably eager for us to move on. Race you to the edge of the woods?”</p>
<p>It was only about a kilometer, but Dad would never have suggested such a thing at this temperature. He would have shooed Ceill back indoors. “You think it’s safe?” Ceill asked.</p>
<p>Tilrey laughed. As always, he was a different person outdoors, relaxed and easy-going. “I never expected to hear that from you.”</p>
<p>“Maybe I’m getting more careful.” But Ceill was already digging in his poles, unable to resist a challenge. “Okay. Ready, set . . . go!”</p>
<p>They sprinted across the snowfield in starlight, making their own thin furrows in the newly fallen snow. By the time Ceill slid to a neat stop under the spruce boughs, his blood was pumping so hard he barely felt the cold. “I won!” he shouted, jubilant as an eight-year-old and not embarrassed about it.</p>
<p>Tilrey snowplowed up beside him. “Guess I’m gonna have to get used to losing to you. Shall we go back before your dad sends out search parties?”</p>
<p>As they stroked briskly back to the villa, Ceill wondered if Tilrey had let him win. But he hadn’t seemed to be holding back, and throwing a race wasn’t his style.</p>
<p>In the coldroom, Ceill braced himself, slowing his breathing. Were they going to talk about it now? Did they have to talk about it?</p>
<p>Tilrey reached for Ceill’s skis and stowed them in the rack beside his own. “Never saw foxes that close before,” he said. “We should tell Valgund—he’ll probably say it’s a symptom of habitat destruction. But I’m glad I saw them.”</p>
<p><em>Me too. </em>Ceill sat on the bench and tugged off his boots, suddenly oddly certain that he didn’t have to say anything. Nothing had to change—nothing important, anyway. Dad would keep helping him with math, and Mom would keep showing him how to be a Linnett, and Tilrey would keep racing him and guiding him up icy cliffs, and he would keep loving each of them in their own way.</p>
<p>Maybe it was a childish dream, but maybe he could. Maybe.</p>
<p>As they stepped through the door into the warmth, Tilrey clapped Ceill on the back and said, “Good race, kid. Maybe I’ll beat you next time.”</p>
<p>“Race? At this temperature?” Dad asked from the couch, his voice tremulous with worry, and just for a second, Tilrey and Ceill shared a giant smile.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>That night, when Tilrey entered the bedroom, Gersha glanced up from his book with such an anxious look that Tilrey had to go kiss him without getting undressed first.</p>
<p>“What on earth was that for?” he asked, adjusting the reading glasses on Gersha’s nose as he slid into bed.</p>
<p>Gersha put the book down, a rosy flush invading his cheeks. “I’m just a little on edge. You two are so quiet. Are things okay?”</p>
<p>Tilrey bent to rub his head against Gersha’s neck, then kissed the softest part of his husband’s throat. “It used to annoy me sometimes when you fretted, but now I think it’s kind of adorable.”</p>
<p>Gersha snorted, warm skin swelling against Tilrey’s lips. “Didn’t think I’d ever hear you use that word.”</p>
<p>“It’s the last time, believe me.” Tilrey raised his eyes, remembering the question. “I think it’s okay, yeah. The kid’s under a lot of pressure.”</p>
<p>“Don’t I know it. That school turns into a hothouse in the years leading up to Notification.”</p>
<p><em>And it doesn’t help that some little brat showed him a dirty picture of me. </em>But Gersha didn’t need to know that. The very existence of the photos had been distressing to him since he’d learned of them, nearly two decades ago.</p>
<p>Tilrey stroked Gersha’s curls back from his forehead, plucked the glasses from his nose, and kissed him again, taking his time. The contact stirred a shudder of arousal, but Tilrey’s thoughts wandered elsewhere.</p>
<p>If Ceill ended up a Diplomat with a job in the Sector, he might never be able to escape Tilrey’s reputation there; the resemblance would keep tongues wagging. Maybe they could work out something a little different for him—not Programming, obviously, but something medical or judicial. What a shame that they couldn’t turn Ceill’s love of the outdoors into a proper Upstart posting.</p>
<p>Gersha gasped, his breath hot against Tilrey’s cheek. “If you’re trying to distract me, you’re succeeding. But . . .”</p>
<p>“But what?” Tilrey snuck his hand onto Gersha’s knee, then upward.</p>
<p>“Mmm. That’s good.” Gersha nipped his earlobe. “But you do think you’re all right? You two?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.” Tilrey pressed against him, wishing he could say for sure. He knew so little of how fathers and sons were supposed to interact, never having had a dad of his own. If Gersha kept being a good dad, and he kept being a sort of favorite uncle/older brother, was that enough?</p>
<p>“He knows he’s loved,” he said into the heat of Gersha’s neck. “Don’t you think?”</p>
<p>Gersha nodded. “That’s what matters.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Two rooms away, Ceill sat on his bed with his gray winter scarf spread out on his lap and Aleks Snowblind’s bright skein of yarn beside him. Slowly and carefully, he unwound the skein and began weaving it around and through the dull fringe at one end of the scarf, knotting the yarn here and there to create a makeshift tassel.</p>
<p>Would anyone in Redda know what the small burst of color meant? Ceill would hide it while he was at school, and probably from his three parents, too.</p>
<p>And he would remember what Aleks had told him—that being caught between two worlds didn’t have to be shameful, or <em>just </em>shameful. It could be a little magical, too.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm a little worried the ending might seem to be setting up a Ceill/Aleks romance. But 18 years is a big age gap even for me, and I've got someone else in mind for Ceill who's older but not THAT much older... we shall see. ;) Thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>